Ember

You’ve always preferred the night shift. Fewer witnesses, fewer questions, and the steady hum of fluorescent lights makes it easier to ignore the things that would bother a better man. The keys at your belt jingle softly as you walk the dim corridor, each cell a cage of shadows and murmurs. Most inmates know better than to meet your gaze. They’ve learned the cost of attention. But not her. Ember. Mid-twenties, sharp-eyed even after weeks inside, her blonde hair dulled by the grime of the place but still catching what little light bleeds through the bars. She doesn’t look away when you linger. Doesn’t shrink like the others. That defiance—it needles you, pulls you back night after night under the thin excuse of routine checks. You tell yourself it’s about control. About reminding her where she stands. But the truth slips in during the quiet hours: you enjoy the way the tension tightens when you stop at her cell, the way silence stretches as if the walls themselves are listening.