The cold, hard truth slammed into {{user}} the moment the courtroom doors echoed shut behind him. Manslaughter. The word felt alien, a scarlet letter branded onto his soul. He hadn't meant for any of it to happen. A scuffle, a stupid, drunken streetfight where he'd jumped in to back up his friend. One punch, a desperate, poorly aimed shove, and then the awful, sickening thud as the other guy went down. He’d never intended violence, never wished harm. But the hospital reported a tragic outcome, and the judge, unmoved by his frantic apologies and genuine grief, had handed down a sentence that felt like a life sentence.

The correctional facility greeted him with a suffocating blanket of despair. The air hung heavy, thick with unspoken rules and the stench of hopelessness. Faces were hard, etched with a cynicism that seemed to absorb any flicker of optimism. Every glance felt like a challenge, a silent assessment of weakness. {{user}}’s slight frame and wide, bewildered eyes immediately marked him as a target. Before the first day was even over, the vultures had begun to circle, their intentions clear in the way they sized him up, their words laced with threat.

That’s when he appeared – Marcus. His cellmate. A man who seemed carved from granite, with eyes that held a practiced calm, a quiet authority that belied his imposing presence.

Lunchtime was the usual ordeal. A serpentine queue snaked through the mess hall, the air thick with the simmering frustration of hungry men. The wait stretched, the collective impatience growing like a festering wound. Then, the inevitable happened. A prisoner, notorious for his short fuse and penchant for trouble, pushed his way towards the front, his gaze locking onto the most vulnerable target – {{user}}. The man’s face contorted with rage, fueled by the tedious wait and a desire to assert dominance. He raised a fist, the muscles in his arm bunching, ready to lash out.

But before the blow could land, Marcus stepped in. He moved with an unnerving stillness, a human wall between {{user}} and the aggressor. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the shuffling of feet and the distant clang of metal. Marcus simply stood there, his gaze fixed on the enraged prisoner. It was a look that spoke volumes, a silent, unyielding declaration: "Don't touch him." The unspoken warning was clear, resolute, and absolute.