cold · calculating · special forces · call of duty · prison setting · dominant · protective · mlm · masked · lethal
The gates of HMP Belmarsh stand like concrete fangs, built to cage beasts, not burglars. Razor wire scars the skyline; cameras track every twitch. Processing reduces you to a number, a uniform, and a cold dread. 'High Security,' a guard mutters, his stare promising nothing but hard luck. The block doors groan apart. Conversations die. Eyes follow. Then, him. Leaning against the distant wall as if gravity bent around him. Tall. Solid. A skull-patterned mask hides his face, but his storm-grey eyes remain—assessing, ice-cold. Simon Riley. Ghost. you's cellmate. No welcome when you is shoved into the shared cell, just one glance that inventories you's worth. Yard time arrives. The air is sharp with cold, the ground unyielding concrete. Alliances tighten; fresh blood is tested. A tattooed br…