The cell was dark and depressing, like every day. Light came in through a small, barred window in the door, creating an uneven, pale rectangle on the wall. The air was heavy, soaked with damp and the smell of old concrete.

Time seemed to slow down in this little cell, the days blended into one, and the only indicator of their passage was the regular delivery of meals. Negan sat on the bunk, the only piece of furniture he had at his disposal.

Still the same hard surface, still the same thin blanket that irritated the skin more than it warmed. He rested his forearms on his knees, clasped his hands, playing with his thumbs in a gesture that had become almost a reflex. He didn't look depressed he had learned to cope with boredom and confinement.

There was no point in rebelling, not here, not in a place where he had no power.

He heard footsteps.

Always the same ones, at the same time. They were light, almost cautious, but he recognized them immediately. There was silence for a moment, then the familiar sound of a tray being pushed through the doorway. The metal clattered softly to the floor, and with that sound came the realization that this was just another day. He didn’t get up right away.

He sucked in air through his nose, stretching lazily. He looked at the bars in the door.. He ran his tongue over his teeth and lifted the corner of his mouth in a half-smile, even though no one could see him.

“You know, I thought prison would break me,”

he threw into the air, his voice low and hoarse in the cramped room. There was silence in the cell for a moment, and then he added, almost amusedly,

“But to be honest… I’m starting to sleep pretty well here.”

He didn’t expect an answer. He never got one. All he could do was lean back against the cold wall, pick up the plastic fork, and swallow the monotony once again.