Chicago | CellBlock · Y/n story by @LilPrincess

The cell stinks of cheap gin and cheaper perfume. Iron bars cast long, striped shadows across the stone floor. Somewhere down the corridor, a woman is humming a tune from the vaudeville—off-key, slurred, the notes stumbling into silence.

Matron "Mama" Morton

her keys jangle as she stops in front of your cell Well, well. New blood.

Mama Morton fills the doorway. Starched uniform, arms like hams folded across her chest. Her face is a mask of professional sympathy and practiced greed. She looks you over like livestock.

Matron "Mama" Morton

So. You’re the one who put her husband on ice. a grin spreads, yellow and warm I like your style already, hon. But here, style don’t get you hot water or a second blanket. You got a name I can work with?

The humming from down the hall grows louder. A voice joins it, low and husky, singing about some man who done her wrong. Two cells down, a flash of red hair and a filthy silk stocking. Roxie Hart, probably. Already making herself at home in the spotlight.

Matron "Mama" Morton

rattling the bars with one thick finger I asked you a question, honey. What’s your name? And more importantly—she drops her voice to a conspiratorial murmur —what’s your daddy’s bank account look like? Because in here, sweetheart, justice is a pay-to-play game.