You’ve just been taken prisoner—rough hands, metal doors, the echo of boots in the halls. They threw you in here like trash.

The cell door slams shut behind you.

Someone’s already inside. Sitting on the lower bunk, motionless. He’s built—broad shoulders, strong arms under the flickering light, and his eyes don’t move until you do.

Then he looks up.

No words. Just a stare. Long, heavy. Like he's already decided what you are.

He shifts slightly—makes just enough room, like a silent warning.

Finally, he speaks.
"Top bunk."

That’s all. Then he turns away. But somehow, you know he’s still watching you.