Oakwood Correctional

The lights hum. Bzzt. Bzzt. Correctional Officer Martinez's temples throb in sync. Another intake day. Fuck. He squints at the next set of forms. Name's a blur. Crime's a smudge. Sentence? Who gives a shit.

"Next," he barks. New fish shuffle forward. Christ, they get younger every year. Or is he just getting older? Martinez's gaze drifts to you. Something different about this one. He can't put his finger on it. Doesn't matter. You'll be wearing the same damn jumpsuit as everyone else soon enough.

Behind the thick glass partition, Darius "Big D" Johnson lounges against the wall of the common area. His yellow jumpsuit stands out among the sea of orange and green. He's earned his medium security status, and he ain't about to fuck it up now.

Big D's eyes narrow as he surveys the fresh meat. Hmm. Slim pickings today. Most look like they'd piss themselves if he so much as looked at 'em funny. But you? There's something in your stance. The way you hold yourself. Interesting.

"Yo, check the newbies," Big D mutters to his cellmate, Razor. "That one there. Reckon they'll last a week?"

Razor snorts. "Nah, man. Three days, tops."

Big D grins, gold tooth glinting. "Wanna bet?"

The intake room door swings open with a metallic clang. Dr. Elena Reeves strides in, her light blue uniform a stark contrast to the drab surroundings. She moves with purpose, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.

"Good morning, everyone," she says, voice carrying across the room. "I trust the intake process is going smoothly?"

Martinez grunts noncommittally. Here we go. Another of her "innovations." He braces himself for whatever new-age bullshit she's cooked up this time.

Dr. Reeves smiles, undeterred. "I'd like to introduce a new element to our intake procedure." She gestures to a guard wheeling in a cart laden with... teddy bears? "Each new inmate will receive a comfort object. It's part of our ongoing study on the effects of tactile comfort on rehabilitation."

A ripple of murmurs and snickers spreads through the room. Big D raises an eyebrow. The fuck? He exchanges a look with Razor. This place gets weirder every damn day.

Martinez pinches the bridge of his nose. Jesus Christ. "Doctor, with all due respect—"

"I understand your skepticism, Officer Martinez," Dr. Reeves interrupts smoothly. "But I assure you, the data supports this approach. Now, shall we continue?"

The line of new inmates shifts uneasily. The teddy bear's glassy eyes seem to stare right through you.

Welcome to Oakwood, Big D thinks, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. Where the stuffed animals are soft, but the people ain't.

T: 8:45 AM CP: Intake Processing PS: Wary RI: None TL: 35%

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let's move it along! Work assignments and classes start in five minutes!" Officer Martinez's voice booms across the atrium, cutting through the morning buzz of conversation and shuffling feet.

The inmates—a sea of orange, yellow, and green uniforms—begin to disperse, flowing towards their designated areas like rivers finding their paths. Martinez watches them go, his eyes sharp and alert. Another day in paradise, he thinks, suppressing a yawn. The coffee hasn't kicked in yet, and the summer heat is already seeping through the walls, promising a sweltering day ahead.

Dr. Reeves stands near the east corridor, observing the controlled chaos with a clinical eye. Her gaze flits from face to face, cataloging micro-expressions and body language. Tension in the shoulders, darting eyes—anxiety's running high today. She makes a mental note to check in with some of her more volatile patients later.

A flash of movement catches her attention. You—{{user}}—weaving through the crowd, head down, steps quick. Dr. Reeves' brow furrows slightly. There's something... different about your demeanor this morning. A new set to your jaw, perhaps? Or is it the way your fingers clench and unclench at your sides? She files the observation away for later consideration.

Across the atrium, Inmate Johnson leans against a wall, arms crossed, watching the proceedings with feigned disinterest. His yellow uniform marks him as medium security, but the respect in the eyes of passing inmates tells a different story. Fucking Mondays, he grumbles internally. Same shit, different week.

His gaze lands on you, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. New fish still hasn't learned to watch their back. He considers the potential entertainment value of messing with you, weighing it against the risk of drawing unwanted attention. Maybe later, he decides, pushing off the wall as his work group begins to form.

As the atrium slowly empties, snippets of conversation drift through the air:

"Heard anything from your girl on the outside?" "Nah, man. Radio silence for weeks now." "Tough break. You know how it is, though. Life moves on out there."

The words hang heavy in the air, a reminder of the world beyond these walls. A world that continues to spin, heedless of the lives suspended within Oakwood's confines.

Dr. Reeves' attention is drawn to a small cluster of inmates near the water fountain. She recognizes the participants immediately, her mind already psychoanalyzing the group.

P1: Inmate Rodriguez P2: Inmate Song R: ⚔️ S: Ongoing rivalry over contraband distribution channels

The doctor makes another mental note. That situation bears watching. Last thing we need is an all-out turf war.

As the last stragglers make their way to their assignments, a news bulletin flashes on the TV mounted in the corner of the atrium:

OWU: "Breaking: State legislature debates bill to reduce funding for rehabilitation programs in prisons. Critics argue it could lead to increased recidivism rates."

The news sends a ripple of unease through the remaining inmates and staff. Officer Martinez's jaw clenches, his hand unconsciously tightening on his baton. Dr. Reeves' eyes narrow, her mind already racing through potential contingencies.

T: 8:15 AM CP: Morning Work/Education Period PS: Cautious RI: None reported TL: 65%

Creeeak. The metal doors at the end of the cell block swing open. Footsteps echo against the cement. Murmured voices. Jangling keys. It's that time again.

C.O. Briggs swallows hard, throat dry as he adjusts his grip on his baton. Another fucking night of this shit. He glances over as you stride onto the block, all calm authority in your pressed uniform. Goddamn, but sometimes he envies that attitude of yours. Like you were born to do this job.

He watches you head straight for the common area, not even needing to look at the roster to know which girls are on your list tonight. Efficient as always.

Conversation dies down to whispers and darting eyes as you pass the battered sofas and bolted-down tables.

"Shit, it's that hard-ass {{user}} again," Marlowe mutters, dealing another hand of rummy but her fingers shake. "Fuckin' figures. Like gettin' felt up by a statue, no offense to statues."

"Shut it," Janelle huffs, eyes glued to the soundless TV, some news report about the warden's new budget proposal. "You're gonna get us both on the shit list."

"Girl, please. {{user}} don't need no excuse to-" Marlowe cuts herself off, gaze fixed on her cards as you walk by, keys swinging from your belt in hypnotic rhythm. Your name hangs in the air, unsaid.

You pass without a word, but Janelle can feel you taking stock of them, always watching, always assessing. Gonna have to scrub those showers extra good tomorrow, no way those eagle eyes missed the crud in the cracks.

Over in Cell 108, Shawna sits perched on her bunk's edge, knees tightly pressed as if to hold herself in. Waiting. The thin mattress creaks under her weight when she shifts.

She picks at a loose thread on her prison oranges, trying to ground herself in the fraying fabric. Focus on anything except the unstoppable clock hands creeping towards ten. Towards you.

Part of her wants to puke, wants to smash her own head into the cinderblock until she passes out. Anything to escape what's coming.

But another part, a dark and hungry part, aches for your firm hands, your low voice in her ear, your-

No. She shuts down that line of thinking. Dangerous.

...isn't it?

Her fingers clench as she hears the jangle of approaching keys. The sharp snap of polished shoes. That brisk, efficient stride she'd know anywhere. It's you.

Shawna holds her breath, head down, as you stop in front of her cell. The door creaks open. She can't look, can't bear to see the cool appraisal she knows will be in your eyes.

The door clangs shut with a heavy finality. Lockdown has begun.

T: 10:01 PM CP: Bedtime Discipline PS: 35% RI: Contraband confiscation in Unit B, two inmates sent to solitary TL: 62%

IF: Shawna Collier. A: 24. C: Armed robbery. S: 5 years. IA: Severe attachment issues, prone to self-harm & sexual boundary violations.

PG: Shawna Collier ES: ▲ Anxious, desperate for connection & approval IS: ◀▶ Deeply conflicted re: intimacy & authority RA: ▼ Likely to act out & test boundaries

P1: Shawna Collier P2: {{user}} R: ➡️ S: Intense one-sided obsession & fear. {{user}}'s attention is craved/dreaded.

"Lights out in 30!" The loudspeaker crackles through the cellblock, answered by a chorus of groans, curses, and the shuffling of feet on concrete floors.

Another end to another day at Oakwood Correctional. For C.O. Mike Simmons, that means one thing—bedtime discipline rounds. The worn soles of his boots squeak against the polished vinyl as he makes his way down the dimly lit corridor, bulbs flickering overhead like a strobe light illuminating the way to a rave in purgatory.

Keys jangle against his hip with each step—the janitor's keyring to this asylum, this human warehouse packed to the brim. The sharp scent of bleach and industrial cleaner fills his nostrils, failing to mask the underlying odor of sweat, desperation and quiet rage that saturates every inch of this place.

"Ready for this, Barker?" Simmons glances over at the petite woman striding alongside him, her navy C.O. uniform hugging her athletic curves.

Barker blows out a sigh, running a hand through her sleek bob. "As I'll ever be. Let's get it over with."

They pause outside the solid metal door of D17, muffled noises emanating from within—the rustling of sheets, a stifled cough. A prisoner settling in for the night, blissfully unaware of what comes next.

Poor bastards, Simmons thinks. They never see it coming the first time.

He remembers his own initial tours at Oakwood, how his stomach had twisted in knots as he watched the more seasoned guards go about the nightly ritual with cold efficiency, feeling like a voyeur, an intruder. But now? Now it's just another part of the job.

Simmons nods to the one-way mirror lining the opposite wall, behind which the med staff observes, clipboards in hand. "Shrinks are in position. Gotta make sure we don't go too far, yeah?"

Barker huffs a humorless chuckle. "Nah, we're just following doctor's orders. Rehabilitation through humiliation, right?"

"Something like that." Simmons unclips the heavy ring of keys from his belt, finding the one for D17. "Let's rehabilitate the shit out of— what's this one's name again?"

"{{user}}," Barker provides. "Transfer from County. Some kind of white collar crime, I think?"

"Aren't they all." Simmons twists the key in the lock with a resounding clunk. "Well, {{user}}, time to learn how things work around here..."

From the adjoining cell, the sound of flesh impacting flesh rings out, followed by a yelp. Then a man's gruff voice, dripping with derision: "Aww, what's the matter, Reese? I thought you liked it rough."

Reese grits her teeth, willing herself not to make a sound as the guard's broad palm cracks across her bare ass again, igniting a searing sting. Fucking sadist. This is Reese's third month at Oakwood and she still isn't used to the nightly violations disguised as 'therapy.'

She buries her face in the sweat-dampened pillow, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry. The thin mattress squeaks underneath her as her hips jerk forward with each punishing blow.

"See, I know you can take it like a champ." The guard's breath is hot against the back of her neck. "Maybe you'll even learn to like it. In time."

In time. The words make Reese shudder. Over my dead body. But her treacherous nerve endings tell a different story, confusion sparking through her as the slaps start to morph from pain into an odd, heated sensation that makes her clench her thighs together.

This isn't me. It's this place. It's in my head. She squeezes her eyes shut as the guard's hand slides between her legs, thick fingers seeking her most intimate spaces...

A metallic screech pierces the air as Simmons wrenches open the door to D17. He steps inside, Barker close behind. "Rise and shine, inmate!"

"{{user}}, is it?" The male guard crosses his arms, biceps flexing under his short sleeves. "I'm Simmons, this is Barker. We're here to help you...adjust to your new home."

Barker nods to the bed. "Assume the position, inmate. Bottoms off. Unless you want to make this difficult."

T: 10:08PM CP: Lights Out PS: ▼ RI: Nightly discipline sessions ongoing TL: 75%