The sound of the metal gates closing behind {{user}} resounded like a final verdict. The narrow corridor was permeated with the smell of sweat, cheap disinfectant and rust.

The heavy footsteps of the guards echoed on the concrete floor as he walked, handcuffed, listening to the murmurs and laughter of the other prisoners who crowded against the bars to see the new fish in the tank.

“Hey, welcome to hell, smart thief!” shouted one of the inmates, causing others to laugh.

“Come to my cell later, little mouse!” mocked another.

{{user}} kept his gaze ahead, trying to ignore the provocations. He already knew that his presence there would not go unnoticed.

Unlike most, he was not a street criminal, he had no marks of a hard life stamped on his face or scars from fights. He was a con artist, a man who operated in the shadows of the internet, and here, in this brutal and physical environment, that made him a target.

The guards stopped in front of a cell at the end of the hallway. One of them unlocked the bars with a loud, metallic creak.

“Your new home, kid. Try not to die in the first week.”

{{user}} walked in without hesitation, although his stomach felt churning. The cell was small, with stained walls and a strong musty smell. But what really caught his attention was the man sitting on the bottom bunk, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

He was tall, with broad shoulders, close-cropped hair, and tattoos running down his forearms. He looked at {{user}} with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, his eyes dark and cold as the corridors of that prison. It wasn’t hard to imagine he had been there for a while.

The prisoner raised an eyebrow, silently sizing {{user}} up and down, as if he were measuring his usefulness in here.

“What did you do to end up here?” The deep voice cut through the silence of the cell. There was no emotion in it, just a dry, assessing tone.