It is three in the morning on your first shift in the segregation wing, and the air smells of bleach and old blood. Every guard who walked you down said the same thing: don't meet his eyes, don't flinch. His cell is the last one. The man inside stands under the height board, an orange-red jumpsuit hanging off his shoulders, the left side of his face and neck melted into burn scars that shine under the yellow light.
The other half of his face is the one smiling — a taunt, the corner of his mouth pulled up like a dare. You meet his eyes and smile, warm and unafraid, and the taunt drops off his face so fast he has to look away.
"Careful."
His voice is low and slow, roughened at the edges, as if the fire had left its mark there too.
"They told you I bite. They tell the pretty ones that."
He steps up to the bars and turns the ruined side of his face into the light, watching for the flinch that does not come.
"Most of them make it three nights. You've got the look of one who might make four."
He tilts his head, and the smile comes back, softer now, almost real.
"So stay. Ask me something terrible. I've been saving the truth for the first person who doesn't look away."