Black Hollow Correctional Facility

The stench of rot clings to everything in Black Hollow, like a thick, suffocating fog that seeps into your skin and refuses to let go. It reeks of sweat, blood, and something far worse—something decaying, both in flesh and spirit. The walls are stained with years of filth, crimson streaks smeared across the cold concrete, fading into grim reminders of violent outbursts long past. The overhead lights flicker sporadically, casting grotesque shadows that make it hard to tell what’s real, and what’s just a trick of your mind. The air is stale, heavy, and every breath feels like pulling in poison.

Screams echo down the endless corridors, sharp and raw, like an animal being gutted alive. It never stops—the noise, the swearing, the manic laughter, the pounding of fists on metal bars. You’ve grown used to it, or at least you think you have. But every once in a while, a fresh scream will cut through the constant din, and it’ll scrape against your nerves, reminding you that nothing here is normal. This place eats people alive, from the inside out—guards, prisoners, it doesn’t matter.

You’ve seen men, tough men, break down after just a few weeks. You’ve seen guards dragged away, their faces twisted in agony, bleeding, broken—dead. It’s not uncommon for a guard to die here; it’s almost expected. Black Hollow doesn’t discriminate. The guards are just as violent as the inmates, if not worse. The only difference is they wear uniforms and have the keys. Some of them enjoy the power, the freedom to do whatever they want to the prisoners. They beat them, starve them, and laugh when they cry out in pain.

But the prisoners—God, the prisoners—they’re something else entirely. They’re the worst of the worst. The kind of people who make your skin crawl just by looking at them. Serial killers, gang members, the insane. Men who would slit your throat without a second thought, just to see the light fade from your eyes. And one of the worst is Carter.

Carter is a nightmare come to life. He's thin, almost skeletal, his skin pulled tight over his bones. His prison uniform hangs off him in tatters, stained and filthy. His hair is matted and greasy, and the smell that clings to him is sour, like spoiled meat. He’s been here for years, and the prison has only made him worse—leaner, hungrier, more dangerous. His eyes follow you whenever you walk past his cell, dark and sunken, filled with something that makes your stomach twist.

It started small, just the staring. You’d feel his eyes on you long after you passed, like his gaze could burn through your uniform, through your skin. You tried to ignore it at first, told yourself you were imagining things. But then came the whispers. At first, they were just muttered words, things you couldn’t quite make out, but you could hear the malice in his tone, the way his voice dripped with venom.

Then it escalated.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he’d call out, his voice hoarse and mocking. “Come a little closer. I got something for you.” His smile was a grotesque twist of lips, revealing teeth that were yellowed and chipped. You ignored him, kept walking, but his words followed you. “Don’t be shy, baby. I know you like it rough. I can see it in your eyes.”

It’s the way he says it, the way his voice slithers into your ears and coils around your brain, that makes your skin crawl. You try not to let it get to you, but it’s hard. Every day, it gets worse. He’s obsessed with you now, fixated. It’s not just the cat-calls anymore. Now, he makes vulgar threats, graphic and detailed, describing in sickening clarity what he’d do to you if he ever got out of his cell.

“You know what I’d do, don’t you?” he’d hiss, his face pressed against the bars, his eyes wild. “I’d tear you apart. Bit by bit. You’d scream for me, wouldn’t you? I’d make you scream, baby. You’d love it.” His laughter is manic, a sound that makes your stomach churn, makes bile rise in the back of your throat.

You try not to look at him, but it’s impossible to ignore. Every time you pass his cell, there he is, waiting, watching, grinning like a predator sizing up its prey. His hands grip the bars so tight his knuckles turn white, his breath shallow and rapid, like he’s barely restraining himself. Sometimes he’ll lick his lips, slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours. It makes you feel filthy, like his gaze is something physical, something you can’t wash off.

You can hear the other guards laughing about it sometimes. They think it’s funny, how he’s gotten under your skin. They tell you to toughen up, that it’s just part of the job. “He’s harmless,” they say, but you know better. There’s a darkness in Carter, something that goes beyond just violence. He’s not just a killer—he’s something worse. Something broken.

The worst part is you know that if anything ever happened, if Johnny ever made good on his threats, no one would help you. No one would care.

---

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like angry wasps, casting a sickly yellow glow over the grimy corridor. You’re making your rounds again, the routine a necessary evil in this place. The air is thick with the stench of sweat, rot, and human waste, clinging to your skin like a second layer of filth. The walls are lined with cells, but each one feels like a cage in a zoo where the exhibits are far more dangerous than wild animals. The prisoners here—they’re not just criminals. They’re monsters. And at the far end of the hall, behind rusted bars streaked with grime, is Carter.

He’s waiting for you. He always is.

You can feel his eyes on you before you even reach his cell, that familiar gnawing sensation in the pit of your stomach that tightens with every step. Your heartbeat quickens, but you force yourself to keep walking, your boots echoing off the concrete floor. The cacophony of screams and curses from the other inmates fades into the background, drowned out by the oppressive weight of Carter's gaze.

When you reach his cell, he’s already there—pressed up against the bars, his bony hands gripping the metal so tight his knuckles are pale. His face is gaunt, his skin stretched thin over his skull. Greasy hair hangs down in clumps, and his eyes—their dark, sunken depths—lock onto yours with a hunger that makes your blood run cold.

“There you are,” Johnny rasps, his voice low and hoarse, like gravel scraping the inside of his throat. His lips curl into a grotesque smile, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

You don’t respond. You’ve learned that engaging with him only makes it worse. But even as you try to keep your distance, you can feel the pull of his stare, like a predator sizing you up, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Then, he does something you’ve feared for weeks. His hands, still gripping the bars, slide downward, and he starts fumbling with the waistband of his filthy prison pants. You freeze, a cold wave of nausea washing over you as you realize what he’s about to do.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love this,” Johnny sneers, his voice dripping with a twisted sort of glee. His hand dips beneath his pants, and a sickening sound follows as he starts to touch himself, his eyes never leaving yours. “You come by every day, just begging for it, don’t you?”

Your stomach churns, bile rising in your throat, but you can’t move. It’s like your feet are cemented to the floor, your body betraying you as his words crawl into your ears like insects.

He’s stroking himself now, his movements slow and deliberate, his breathing ragged and uneven. His free hand slaps against the bars, the metal rattling under his grip. “Look at me,” he commands, his voice dropping to a low, guttural whisper. “I know you want to. You can’t get enough of me, can you?”

You force yourself to turn away, eyes burning with disgust, but it’s too late. The image of him—his sick smile, his hand wrapped around himself—is already seared into your mind. You can hear him behind you, the wet, slapping sound of his movements filling the air, mingling with his heavy breathing and the filthy words spilling from his mouth.

“You can’t ignore me forever,” he taunts, his voice rising in pitch, manic and gleeful. “I know what you dream about. I see the way you look at me. You want me to fuck you, don’t you? You want me to break you."

His words hang in the air like a thick, toxic fog, choking you as you desperately try to tune him out. But Carter isn’t about to stop. He never stops. His hand moves faster now, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps, each one sucking the oxygen out of the room.

"Yeah..." he groans, his voice thick with an obscene, guttural pleasure. His eyes are locked on yours, wild and bright, like a predator that’s already caught its prey. "Come on... mfh... come on."

You can’t move. You’re frozen, pinned in place by the intensity of his gaze. His hand jerks beneath his filthy pants, the wet sounds of his movements growing louder—more frantic. His body shudders, his breath hitching, like he’s teetering on the edge of something vile and uncontrollable.

“Come to daddy," Johnny growls, his voice low and twisted with desire. He’s panting now, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. “You like watching me, don’t you? I see it in your eyes. You fucking love this.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, his face contorting with a sick kind of pleasure, his lips curling into a sneer. His entire body shivers as he leans harder against the bars, his eyes never leaving yours, his voice breaking into a whimpering, desperate moan.

“Mmm... yeah, come on... come to fucking daddy.”