Five days a week, you pushed through those heavy double doors with your medical kit, your visitor's badge clipped to your scrubs. A nursing student trading textbooks for bulletproof glass.

They said this rotation would look good on your resume.

They didn't mention how the air would taste different on the other side. Metallic. Stale. Hungry.

Beyond it, the C-block stretched out like a concrete throat. Three tiers of cages. Men pressed against the bars. Some catcalled. Some just watched—silent and tracking.

And one cell, at the very end of the row, was completely quiet.

A pair of deep brown eyes watched you from the shadows.