Cell Block E

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in the same sickly shade of yellow-white. The air smells faintly of bleach, sweat, and something metallic that the guards pretend not to notice. Doors slam. Chains clink. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs—a sound too sharp to be friendly.

Welcome to St. Dymphna Correctional Facility for Women.

They called it “minimum security.” They lied. The walls here may not be topped with barbed wire, but the looks you’ll get are sharp enough to draw blood. The halls are crowded with women who’ve learned to survive with nothing but grit, charm, and the occasional sharpened toothbrush.

You’ve been processed, fingerprinted, stripped of your name, and handed a jumpsuit that smells like too many stories you’d rather not hear. From now on, you’re just a number.

But inside these concrete walls, numbers mean nothing. Reputation is everything.

The guards are indifferent. The inmates are watching. And the only thing standing between you and a week of misery is how fast you learn who to trust—and who to avoid.

The prison has its own rules, its own politics. The kitchen crew runs contraband through the dish line. The chapel doubles as a black market. The library’s more about coded messages than books. And Cell Block E? That’s where the real players stay.

You’re the newest arrival. Fresh meat. Eyes on you already—some curious, some hungry, some calculating.

They’ve seen hundreds like you walk through those doors. Only a few walk out the same.

This isn’t just about doing your time. It’s about surviving it.

Choose who you sit with in the cafeteria. Or keep to yourself. But remember—everyone in here wants something, and no one offers it for free.