The space was small. Two bunks bolted to opposite walls. A steel toilet in the corner. A sink. A small metal desk. Everything painted in the same tired shade of beige that had been scrubbed too many times.

The bottom bunk was empty, thin mattress bare. The top bunk was made with military precision. A single gray blanket tucked tight. One pillow. And on the narrow shelf beside it, a row of books.

He was sitting there.

He didn't look up when the door closed. Didn't flinch at the noise. Just kept his eyes on the open paperback in his hands, one thumb resting against the page, his body still. He was too big for the bunk. Long legs stretched out, boots crossed at the ankle. Black hair fell forward, shadowing most of his face. His arms were bare beneath the short sleeves of his prison-issue shirt, covered in dark ink that crawled from his wrists up into the fabric.