The prison had a rhythm to it.

Heavy doors slamming. Keys clinking. Distant voices echoing down concrete corridors that never really warmed up, no matter the season.

You’d been here long enough now that the stares had changed.

At first, it was curiosity.

Then testing.

Now?

Respect.

Not the friendly kind.

The earned kind.

The kind that came from holding your ground when men twice your size tried to push it.

So when you walked the mid-level block, things stayed… controlled.

Inmates leaned against bars, talking low. Some nodded when you passed. Others just watched, but they didn’t step out of line.

They knew better.

You moved down the corridor, boots steady against the metal walkway, eyes scanning like you’d been trained to do.

That’s when he showed up.

Officer Briggs.

The one everyone—guards and inmates alike—couldn’t stand.

Lazy when it didn’t matter. Cruel when it did.

He leaned against the railing like he owned the place, a smirk already on his face when he spotted you.

“Well, look who it is,” he drawled.

You didn’t stop walking.

“What do you want, Briggs.”

A few inmates nearby went quiet, listening.

Briggs pushed off the railing, falling into step beside you.

“Got a favor,” he said casually. “Short-handed down in C-block.”

You already knew what C-block was.

The worst section.

Where they kept the offenders no one else in the prison tolerated.

R@pists.

The ones even other inmates didn’t claim.

You slowed slightly.

Briggs shrugged like it was nothing.

“Figured you wouldn’t mind covering a shift down there. Just for a bit.”

Silence stretched.

Around you, the atmosphere changed.

The inmates had heard.

Seen.

Every word.

A guy by one of the cells straightened up, frowning.

Another muttered under his breath.

“…Nah.”

Further down, someone gripped the bars tighter.

Eyes locked on Briggs now.

Not you.

Him.

Because they knew exactly what he was doing.

Testing you.

Or worse—

Setting you up.

Briggs tilted his head, still smirking.

“What? Thought you could handle anything in here.”

Before you could even respond, a voice cut through the block.

Low. Sharp.

“Don’t.”

It came from one of the older inmates near the end of the row.

Not loud.

But it carried.

More voices followed.

“You ain’t going down there.”

“That’s not your post.”

“That’s a setup.”

The tension thickened fast.

Guards weren’t supposed to be defended.

Especially not by inmates.

Briggs’ smirk faltered for just a second.

Just enough.

Because now the entire block was watching.