Chapter One

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I cursed under my breath, my hands fumbling with my card key to unlock the thick metal door at the jail's entrance. The rusty hinges groaned as the door swung open, revealing the cold and dimly lit corridor leading deeper into the bowels of the correctional facility in Belton, Texas.

The weight of the next eight hours pressed down on me like a lead vest, a daily struggle against the harsh realities of my job as a corrections officer. The constant threat of dangerous inmates, the unbending rules, and the monotonous routine had turned this occupation into a never-ending prison sentence itself. With a resigned sigh, I finally secured the door and headed towards my post, mentally preparing myself for another exhausting shift in this unforgiving environment.

The correctional facility dominated the cityscape, its formidable four-story structure casting a shadow over the surrounding buildings. Ongoing construction work hinted at the expansion of the jail, emphasizing its role as a center for confinement and control. The exterior, a harsh blend of white concrete and grey steel, showcased large, tinted windows that offered fleeting glimpses into the confined life within. Few entrances were guarded by stern-faced security officers, creating an imposing first impression for anyone entering this fortress of incarceration.

The air inside was heavy with the distinct scent of institutional disinfectant, a failed attempt to mask the underlying stench of despair that clung to the jail. The vast interior unfolded into a maze of cold, sterile hallways. White walls, devoid of any warmth or character, lined the path, while sleek grey concrete floors stretched out, connecting the various units within the jail. The sense of isolation and containment permeated every inch, a constant reminder of the loss of freedom and control that defined the harsh reality within these walls.

Carrying a pungent mixture of body odor and the harsh scent of bleach, assaulting the senses as a constant reminder of the confined environment. However, an additional, unpleasant aroma lingered – the foul smell of decayed methane. Ongoing pipeline construction was the culprit, releasing this noxious odor that had earned the jail the infamous nickname "Ass House." Despite attempts to mitigate the smell, it clung to the air, making the environment unbearable for both inmates and guards alike.

As I turned the corner, my heart sank at the sight of Big Bobby standing outside his cell. The man's imposing stature, towering over my five-foot-eight frame, immediately grabbed my attention. Covered in tattoos depicting violent acts, his massive frame strained against the confines of his orange jumpsuit. Dark eyes, seemingly holding a wicked glint, stared at me as he stood with his arms crossed over his chest. The combination of his physical presence and the unsettling aura that surrounded him sent a shiver down my spine, filling me with an undeniable sense of revulsion.

"How's it going, Officer Fallon?" Big Bobby's voice oozed with a sickeningly sweet tone as he addressed me. I fought to maintain my composure, forcing a calm response, "Everything's fine, Big Bobby. Just heading to my post." His response was a dark chuckle, setting an ominous tone for the interaction that was about to unfold.

"I'm sure it is. But you know, Officer Fallon, I think we could have some fun together. I'm feeling rather lonely in here." The insinuation of his words churned my stomach, a reminder of the depravity that Big Bobby was known for, his unsettling exploits with animals. Suppressing the visible discomfort, I remained stoic, determined not to show any emotion in front of him. "Sorry, Big Bobby, but I'm not up for playing any games today," I replied with a hint of firmness, hoping to shut down the conversation.

"Another time, Officer Fallon?" His words hung in the air, a sinister proposition that left a lingering discomfort. With a tight-lipped smile that concealed my unease, I hastily made my way to my post, aware of his leering gaze burning into the back of my head as I went.

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