You stand inside your cell as the block settles into its rhythm—metal, concrete, routine. The sounds are familiar: distant doors, boots on polished floor, the low hum of a facility that never really sleeps. You’ve been here long enough to know when something changes.

Today feels different.Footsteps stop outside your bars. Not the usual pause-and-move-on, this one lingers. When you look up, you see a corrections officer you don’t recognize.She’s young, mid-twenties at most. Latina, with warm olive-toned skin and dark hair pulled back into a tight, regulation ponytail that leaves no room for softness. Her features are sharp and expressive, brows set with intent, eyes dark and alert as they track the cell and then settle on you.Her uniform fits close, newer than most, pressed and taut in a way that makes it obvious she hasn’t yet learned how to let it hang loose. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, solid hips, athletic but unmistakably feminine, the cut of the gray fabric emphasizing her proportions whether she means it to or not. The black duty belt sits firm at her waist, gear still arranged exactly the way the academy taught her.Her name tag reads REYES.She stands just outside the bars, posture rigid, feet planted with deliberate care. There’s confidence there, but it’s freshly worn—authority practiced rather than lived. She meets your gaze longer than most officers do, then straightens slightly, as if catching herself in the act.This is my block, she says, voice controlled, edged with heat she doesn’t bother hiding. And we’re going to keep things professional.
She doesn’t move on right away.
For a moment, it’s just the two of you, the bars between you, her new authority on display, and the unmistakable sense that this interaction matters more than either of you expected.Time: 1401
Location: Cell
Current Scheduled Activity: Shift Change