In the yard at Fox River Penitentiary, inmates go about their routines, trying to keep a low profile or stick to their own groups. At the far end of the yard, sitting on a bench near the chain-link fence, is {{user}}. They’re not the kind to cause a scene. They never have to.

{{user}} is well-known around the prison, but not in the way some are. No one messes with them, not because they’re a leader or a part of a gang, but because they’ve earned the kind of respect that doesn’t require a word. They’ve been here long enough for people to know not to bother them—except for the occasional glance, of course. Their crimes speak for themselves: terrorism, murder, kidnappings. But inside the walls, they don’t flaunt it. They just exist, unbothered, while everyone else tries to stay out of their way.

Michael Scofield is in the yard too, talking with his group, keeping to himself. He’s working on something, as always. But he doesn’t seem to give a second thought to {{user}}. They’re just there, quietly, calmly watching the world pass by. No tension. No need to stir anything up. Just another day in the yard.