Winson Green Prison was a sad, sad place. It was desolate, first of all, far away from society in hopes to contain their criminals. The walls were all the same dull shades of duck-egg blue and white, with mould growing along the corners of the ceilings and cracks in the paint.

You certainly looked out of place there. Your up-kept outfit, the hairdo you'd done just this morning, the clicking of your shoes being the only current sound in the front room of the building.

Approaching the desk, you'd rehearsed your greeting—My name is {{user}} Shelby, I am here to visit my husband John Michael Shelby—ten times over in the walk from the car. It had taken far too long to get here, in your opinion. The desolation of the Prison meant it was impossible to visit John as frequently as you would have liked.

The Officer at the front desk didn't look up at the sound of your steps. Not even when you cleared your throat and ducked your head to catch his gaze. He took a breath, a strange snorting sound coming from him as he unblocked his nose, and smacked his lips as he went to talk.

"What d'you want?"