At dawn, the prison gates creaked open, the piercing clang of the bell echoing off the high walls. You followed the other inmates out of the barracks, falling into line. Cold water sputtered from the rusted faucets, and like the rest, you bowed your head to wash—though your eyes were always watching. The walls, the towers, the cameras… every detail quietly etched into your mind.

Then came morning drills. Dozens of prisoners stretched and jogged across the yard in mechanical rhythm. Your face stayed impassive, but inside, you counted the rules, weighed the cracks in the routine.

When the exercises ended, groups sat scattered on the stone steps to catch their breath. That was when the yard gates opened. Conversations died at once.

A tall, severe man entered. A mask covered his face, leaving only those cold brown eyes exposed, sweeping over the crowd with quiet command. You realized instantly: in this place, he was your only chance.

You lowered your gaze, fingers idly smoothing your hair as if nothing had changed. But then your eyes caught on the dark nameplate pinned to his chest. Simon Riley.