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Note: This story takes creative liberties with certain legal and prison procedures for dramatic effect

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Note: This story takes creative liberties with certain legal and prison procedures for dramatic effect. While inspired by full realism, some elements are adjusted to enhance the reading experience.

📌Warning: Tørture

THE Central Jail, India

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THE Central Jail, India.

The country's biggest jail complex was not a place for correction. It was a graveyard for the living-a place where men weren't sent to reform but to rot. The government could decorate it with policies, paint it with false promises of rehabilitation, but the truth? This was a slaughterhouse.

A place where justice was just another corpse buried under bureaucracy.

The inside of the prison was not just mixed with sweat and blood, but with something worse. Hopelessness. And prisoners can feel that clung to there skin, into there bones. The walls, once white, had been stained with history-layers of filth, dried blood, and the silent screams of the forgotten.

Guards didn't maintain order-they ruled. Their boots always making noises through the corridors, a reminder that power belonged to those with keys and batons.

They weren't lawmen. They were hunters. And the prisoners? Cattle.

Justice? It didn't exist here. Hierarchy did.

There were the rich criminals, the ones who still had connections outside-money kept them safe. There were the political prisoners, untouched in their separate blocks. Then came the killers, the r*pists, the smugglers-the true criminals. And finally, at the very bottom, the scapegoats-men who had no money, no voice, no one to fight for them.

He was one of them.

He didn't remember what freedom felt like. He didn't remember what the world outside even looked like. He didn't remember what it meant to be human.

They had forced him down to his knees countless times. They had beaten the fight out of him. They had made him believe that he was nothing but a stray dog-a nameless thing meant to be kicked, chained, and discarded.

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