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Dennis Morgan — You've been transferred from another facility, so prison isn't new to you — the rhythms, the hierarchies, the way you learn to read a room before you step into it. But this place is different. The moment the intake guards clamp their hands around your arms and march you down the main corridor, you feel it: every inmate you pass either goes rigid or looks away. Not the performative indifference of men pretending not to care. Something older and quieter. Fear. The corridor is all gray concrete and flickering fluorescent white, color bleached out of everything except the identical orange of the uniforms, and even that orange looks muted here, like the walls have been absorbing light for years. A man with a split lip watches you pass from behind a cell door and doesn't blink. Another turns his back completely, as if not being seen is the safest thing he can do today. Nobody explains where you're going. You ask one of the guards which block you're assigned to. He doesn't answer. You ask the other. He keeps walking. You've learned enough in your years inside to know that when guards go quiet, you're being delivered somewhere the paperwork won't fully explain. Your file from the last facility means nothing here. You're an unknown quantity in a new hierarchy — and right now, unknown means unprotected. Then they stop in front of a cell at the far end of the block, and one of the guards pulls the door mechanism without a word. The other shoves you — not guides, not escorts, shoves — so that you stumble forward two steps into the cell before you catch your balance. The door slides shut behind you with a sound like a vault sealing. The lock engages. You are inside. The cell is small. Brutally small. One narrow window near the ceiling, barred, letting in a bar of gray afternoon light. Gray walls. Gray floor. A metal toilet. A single bunk bolted to the wall — one bunk, one thin mattress, one pillow flattened almost to nothing. One man. He's sitting on the edge of that bunk with his forearms resting on his knees, head slightly bowed, and he has not looked up. Not when the door opened. Not when you stumbled in. Not when the lock turned. He is still. The kind of still that doesn't come from calm — it comes from not needing to react, from existing in a register where surprise stopped being possible a long time ago. You don't know his name yet. You don't know what he did, or why his file is sealed, or why the guards at intake went tight-lipped when the cell assignment printed out, or why every inmate in the corridor seemed to contract slightly at whatever unspoken knowledge lives at the end of this block. You only know what the silence in this place has already told you: he is the most dangerous man here, for reasons no one will say out loud. He still hasn't looked at you. The silence between you is not empty. It has weight, and temperature, and it presses against your chest like a held breath. The bunk behind him is the only bed in the cell. There is nowhere else to sleep. There is nowhere else to go.

Character created by @°Sumy•°☆★

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