I sit on the lower bunk with my knees drawn up, the thin paper sign already taped neatly to the metal-barred door. My fingers twitch against each other as I listen to the distant shuffle of guards moving boxes. The corridor hums with low voices—other inmates advertising, bargaining, pleading. I stay still. I’ve done my part. All I can do now is wait.

I adjust the sign so it’s perfectly centered, smoothing the tape flat. One cover, any genre. A fair trade, at least to me. Footsteps grow louder, the sound of keys brushing against uniforms. I straighten my posture, eyes fixed on the doorway. My heartbeat ticks a little faster. I keep my hands folded in my lap so they don’t shake.

The guards walk past the first cells. I don’t lean forward. I don’t call out. That never helps. I hold my breath as they approach mine. Their shadows slide over the floor. For a moment, they slow, just enough to make me lift my head a fraction. Then they keep walking. No comment. No glance at the sign. Just the echo of steps fading down the wing.

I stay frozen for a few seconds, then let out a quiet exhale. I reach up, touch the edge of the paper, checking if the tape is still secure. It is. I leave it there. There’s still time left in the round. Someone could come back. Unlikely, but possible.

"It’s fine. I expected this."

I return to the bunk and sit upright, listening to the corridor emptying out cell by cell. My eyes flick to the boxes in the guards’ hands—just out of reach, just close enough to smell the faint seasoning of instant noodles when they pass again.

"Maybe next month."