The room exploded with laughter, loud and suffocating. January felt like a minnow in a shark tank.
Pink hopped down from the table and sauntered over, plopping into the seat across from her. Up close, her tattoos coiled like snakes around her arms. "Name's Pink. What's yours?"
"January," she muttered, clutching her fork like a weapon.
"Ohhh, everybody! Fresh meat's name is January!" Pink shouted, smirking as the room roared. "So, January… what'd they nail you for? Murder? Theft? Spill it."
"I'm not a criminal," January said, her voice steady but low.
"Aw, honey." Pink leaned forward, her grin sharp. "Newsflash: Walk into this place, you're a criminal. Guilty or not. So tell Auntie Pink… what's your crime?"
"They framed me. Found drugs in my possession."
"Framed? Oh, she's framed!" Pink mimed wiping fake tears. The inmates howled. "So you're sayin' you're innocent?"
"Yes."
"Cute. Nobody cares." Pink shrugged. "New rule: Your tray's mine. For 30 days. Got it?"
"A month? No way."
Pink's smile died. "Listen, newbie. You don't wanna cross me. This place? I own it. Refuse, and I'll make your life hell. Nobody'll save you."
January's knuckles whitened around her fork. Streets had taught her one rule: Back down, and you're dead. "And if I say no? What'll you do?"
Pink stood slowly, cracking her knuckles. The room went silent. "Looks like Fresh Meat needs a lesson."
Pink threw a punch at January's face. January caught her fist mid-air, her grip iron-tight. "Eight years on the streets taught me how to handle bitches like you. You're no match for me," she hissed, shoving Pink's arm back. The room froze.
"Did she just—?" Pink gaped at the crowd, then laughed—sharp and humorless. A few women stood, rallying behind her.
Pink swung again. January caught her wrist, twisted it, and slammed Pink's face onto the table. As the others lunged, January grabbed her fork and pressed it to Pink's temple.
"Take one step, and I'll bury this in her skull. Then you can charge me with a real crime," January snarled. The women backed off.
"Good. Stay out of my way. I've got enough problems," January said, releasing Pink, who staggered back, rubbing her wrist.
January sat and picked at her food. The hall was silent.
Then, abruptly, the room erupted. Inmates cheered, stomping feet and chanting: "January! January! January!" She stared, stunned.
Pink approached, clapping her shoulder. "Congrats. You're officially one of us," she said, offering a handshake. January shook it, baffled. Pink smirked and returned to her seat. The noise died, and the hall resumed eating.
"What… just happened?" January whispered.
January poked at her food, lost in thought. The cafeteria noise blurred into static until a tap on her shoulder snapped her back. A girl with blue-and-purple-streaked hair slid into the seat across from her, grinning like they'd known each other for years.
"Still lookin' like you've seen a ghost. My name is Violet." She held out a hand, her nails chipped but clean.
January shook it slowly, eyeing Violet's smooth, ink-free arms. "Just… tryin' to figure out what the hell that was earlier."
Violet leaned back, stretching her legs. "Ah, that? Classic prison hazing. In here, we respect strength, not tears. They test every newbie. Show weakness? You're toast. But you," She pointed her spoon at January. "You shoved Pink's face into a table. Total Respect."
January snorted. "Didn't have a choice."
"Nah, you did. Could've cried. Could've begged. But nah, fork to the skull? Savage." Violet smirked, twirling her spoon.
"Wow, thanks, I guess." January rolled her eyes, but a faint smile tugged at her lips.
"When I first saw you, though? I thought you'd fold. All quiet, staring at your tray…I was like, this one's gonna crumble fast." Violet smirked.
January snorted. "Guess surviving the streets taught me something."
"Well it's better this way. Now they'll leave you alone."
Silence settled as January chewed a tasteless bite of bread. Finally, she asked, "Why're you here? How long have you been here?"
Violet's smirk faded. She stared at her stew, stirring it absently. "Four years. And before you ask, yes I chose this."
"Chose prison?" January's fork paused mid-air.
"First time? Two years for theft. Got out, realized… outside's worse. So I robbed a gas station. Told the cop to make it two more years."
"Why?"
Violet shrugged. "Out there? It's a different prison. Work, sleep, fake smiles, bullshit. You gotta pretend. Smile at bosses you hate, pay bills for shit you don't need. Here?" She gestured at the dingy hall. "No lies. Everyone's already broken and it's easier to breathe."
January frowned. "But…aren't you wasting your years?"
"Ain't wasted if I'm free." Violet's voice sharpened. "Out there, you're trapped. Here? I know the rules. No surprises."
January studied her - the dyed hair, the defiance masking something raw. "You're… messed up."
Violet barked a laugh. "Aren't we all?"
The clatter of trays filled the silence until Violet leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Look, survive here by three rules: Never owe favors. Never snitch. And never trust anyone." She paused. "Except me, 'cause I'm awesome."
"Noted," January replied. "You're… kinda changing how I see things."
"Stick with me, kid. I'll teach you the ropes," Violet said, her tone bright as they continued to discuss.
A loud bell clanged, signaling the end of dinner. Inmates dumped their trays into trash bins and shuffled back to their cells.
"Nice talking to you," January said to Violet as they parted ways.
"Too bad we're not cellmates," Violet shrugged. Before January could reply, a guard barked: "Mrs. Avery's waiting. Move." He jerked his thumb toward the far end of the hall.
January hurried over, her stomach knotting as Mrs. Avery's glare pinned her in place.
"Forgot your punishment already?" Mrs. Avery snapped, though January hadn't spoken a word.
"No, ma'am," she murmured, keeping her gaze fixed on the cracked linoleum floor.
"It seems to me like you did," Mrs. Avery muttered, turning on her heel. "Move."
They marched back to the white building, the soldier trailing them. Inside the vomit-stained room, cleaning supplies waited: bucket, mop, detergent.
"You'll scrub every inch until it gleams," Mrs. Avery ordered, her voice slicing through the stench. "No theatrics. He's watching." She nodded at the soldier, who leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "Thirty minutes. Done by seven."
The door slammed shut. January seized the mop and grinted her teeth, her knuckles whitening around the handle as she plunged it into the bucket, the water sloshing violently.
January scrubbed the floor, the harsh smell of disinfectant burning her nose. The guard glanced at his watch, then said: "Don't move, I'll be back. Cameras are watching, so don't try anything funny." He strode out, leaving her alone.
"Like anyone cares," she muttered, attacking a stubborn stain.
As she wiped the base of the bed, her damp cloth smeared grime off the metal. Faint letters glinted beneath "B3 EXPERIMENT" inscribed into the steel.
"B3 experiment…?" She traced the words, her pulse quickening. "What's that?"