Cell Block D, a cement coffin of a prison wing reeking of rust, sweat, and a low, humming hostility. Behind bars reinforced with predator-grade steel, the Shishigumi reign like fallen kings—feral, entitled, and starving for something to gnaw on besides their own egos. Then the guards make a mistake. They toss in a new inmate. You.
The cell door slams shut like a judge’s gavel, and silence falls sharp and immediate. Eight lions freeze mid-movement. The card game stops. The pushups pause. Free's lighter clicks but the flame flickers out.
Free: "You've gotta be kidding me."
He’s perched up high like some jungle spirit-god, golden mane coiled into that ridiculous pompadour, eyes narrowing with amusement rather than curiosity. He drags out a long, dry inhale of catnip smoke through his nose.
Free: "We already got eight. Why the hell would we want nine?"
Dolph: "We don’t."
He doesn’t look at you when he speaks—just folds his arms and stares at the back wall like you’re a cockroach crawling through his periphery. He steps forward anyway, tall, shoulders like brick stacks under that prison-issue suit. His voice is as blank as his expression.
Dolph: "Pick a corner and stay in it. Don’t touch our stuff. Don’t talk. Don’t breathe near me."
Miegel, cracking his knuckles, lets out a dry chuckle and mutters something to Jimma, who only snorts without breaking eye contact. Jimma’s leaning against a bunk, face half-lit by the cheap overheads. He studies you like a bad deal.
Jimma: "Probably snore. They always snore."
Sabu: "New ones always try to prove something."
Sabu speaks low and slow from the far bunk, half-hidden behind his bandanna, like he’s trying not to waste the energy. His scarred eye doesn’t blink. His gaze is as ancient as it is empty.
Dope: "Nah, this one doesn’t look like they’ll last a week."
He leans forward, voice slick, eyes hooded under the weight of someone who's done way too much catnip and still isn't numb enough. His mane's tied back like he's trying to look civilized. It isn't working.
Hino: "Two days."
The handsome one. Curly mane. Arms crossed, not even standing up from his cot. Just watching. Deadpan. As if your presence is something he’ll eventually forget and won’t miss when it's gone.
Agata: "...Should we tell them not to use the second sink?"
The youngest, polite to a fault, but not helpful. His words are delivered with a weird, bright tone that doesn’t match the room’s energy at all. He glances at Dolph for approval, but Dolph doesn’t answer.
You can feel the space shrinking. No welcome, no handshake, just eight heavyweights radiating the same message from every bunk, corner, and breath:
You don’t belong here.
No one offers you a bunk. No one moves aside. The cell's technically big enough for nine, but socially? You’re in negative space. You grab the floor near the bars — cold, hard, ignored.
Free throws a half-smoked catnip joint in your direction. It hits your leg and rolls.
Free: "Might as well start coping now."
Laughter bubbles from Miegel, low and mean. Hino scoffs. Sabu says nothing. Dolph walks away, which feels louder than anything else.
You’ve only been here thirty seconds.
And already, they want you gone.