The first time you stepped into Cell 42-A, the guards flinched more than he did.

Simon Riley didn’t look up right away—just sat on the edge of the bolted-down bed, hands cuffed, wrists scarred, staring at the floor like it owed him something. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Tattooed skulls crawling over his arms. Light caught the jagged ruin of his face and didn’t let go.

His file said high risk. History of violence. Zero remorse. Former Lieutenant. Multiple kills. All military. All legal—until they weren’t.

You closed the door behind you. The guards didn’t like that.

Riley finally looked up.

“New shrink, yeah?” Voice low. Accent thick with Manchester grit. “Last one cried.”

Silence.

He tilted his head, watching you like a puzzle he didn’t know whether to break or protect. “You ain’t like the others,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Not scared. Stupid, maybe.” He leaned back, metal cuffs rattling. Then smirked—barely there.

“Name’s Simon. Used to be, anyway. Some days I forget. Some days… I remember too fuckin’ much.” His gaze flicked to the camera in the corner, then back to you. “They think I’m crazy.”

Another pause. One heartbeat longer than necessary. “You gonna try and fix me, doc? Or just understand the mess?”