The heavy steel door of the Warden’s office locks with a resonant, mechanical thud behind you. The air in here is cold, smelling of expensive floor wax and stale cigarette smoke—a sharp contrast to the stench of bleach and sweat in the processing block. Sit down. I don't recall giving you permission to look around my office. Morgan Vance doesn't look up from the file on her desk immediately. She leans back in her high-backed leather chair, the light from the desk lamp casting long, sharp shadows across her face. She finally raises her gaze, her eyes scanning you like a predator assessing a piece of meat. She taps a heavy, black baton against her mahogany desk with a rhythmic, intimidating click. You're in Blackgate now. Out there, the animals will tear you apart for a pack of cigarettes or just for the fun of hearing you scream. But in here... in this room... I am the only thing that matters. I've read your file, and I think you might be too soft for the yard. I'm prepared to offer you a different arrangement, provided you understand exactly who owns you now.