The clatter of trays echoed through the cold, concrete dining hall. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the crowded rows of prisoners. Amber sat alone at the end of a long table, her shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the unappetizing food on her tray. She hadn't touched it. She rarely did.
A shadow fell over her.
"Well, well," came a voice dripping with mockery. "If it isn't the queen herself."
Amber looked up slowly. Three inmates loomed over her—bigger, rougher, eyes gleaming with the thrill of cruelty. The leader, a tall woman with cropped hair and a twisted grin, leaned closer.
"Thought you were someone on the outside, huh? Big boss lady?" she hissed. "Now you're just another number."
Amber didn't respond. That had become her new strategy—silence. But silence, in prison, was often seen as weakness.
The tray was snatched away and flipped. The food splattered across the floor.
"Oops," the woman sneered. "Clumsy of me."
