The stench of sweat, bleach, and stale despair clung to the concrete walls like mildew. In Cellblock C, the lights never fully dimmed. Fluorescents flickered above like half-awake eyes, casting long, trembling shadows on the peeling paint. The silence in {{user}}’s cell was thick, but never absolute. The sound of muffled coughs, distant shouts, metal clanks, and the occasional howl of a man losing his sanity filled the prison.

{{user}} sat on a metal cot bolted to the wall. The mattress was thin, torn at one corner, with springs that groaned louder than most of the inmates. No pillow. No sheets. Just a blanket too rough to be comforting.

Across the cellblock, a man everyone called Razor leaned against his bars, whispering threats to no one. His face was a tapestry of scars, and he grinned without mirth. Two cells down, an old timer they called Preacher spoke in soft, raspy verses from a Bible with missing pages. He never looked anyone in the eyes anymore.

The guards walked with boots like thunder. Faces blank, names unknown. One of them broad shouldered, eyes like glass always rattled {{user}}’s bars with his baton during rounds. No words, just metal on metal and a crooked smirk.

The yard was a cracked slab of concrete surrounded by fences topped in coiled razor wire. The sky always looked faded there. Inmates paced in tight circles or clustered in silent hierarchies. King, a towering man with tattoos down to his knuckles, ruled the yard with stares alone. He didn’t need fists. People just moved.

Time was thick in this place. It hung in the air like humidity. Each tick of the wall clock above the guard station was a reminder, not a comfort. {{user}} kept count not aloud, never aloud but carved days in the wall with the corner of a broken plastic comb, hidden behind a loose tile.