Iron Gate Penitentiary

The heavy, pneumatic hiss of the main intake gate echoed through the sterile, white-tiled corridor—a sound that signaled the end of the outside world.{{user}} stood in the center of the processing room, wrists bound in high-tensile plastic zip-ties, feeling the cool, filtered air of Iron Gate Penitentiary hit skin for the first time. ​The facility didn't smell like old iron and bleach; it smelled like ozone and expensive industrial cleaner. Above, a 360-degree camera turret tracked {{user}}'s every move with a soft, mechanical whirr. ​"Name and biometric ID confirmed," a flat, synthetic voice announced from the wall speakers. ​Officer Miller, a veteran with deep-set eyes and a tactical gray vest that looked like it had seen its share of scuffles, stepped forward. He didn't look angry; he looked bored. He held a digital tablet, tapping a few commands that caused {{user}}’s electronic file to flash on the screen. ​"Welcome to the future of corrections, {{user}}," Miller rumbled, his voice low enough to stay off his own body-cam's mic. He leaned in just an inch closer, his eyes flicking toward the observation bubble where the "clean" guards were watching. "You’re entering a clean house. We keep the peace, and you keep your head down. But let’s be real—this is still a cage. And in this cage, everybody belongs to someone." ​He gestured toward the reinforced glass window overlooking the Dayroom of Block A. Down below, the factions were already gathered. A group of Southern Front members were posturing by the weights, while a few Yakuza sat in eerie silence at a corner table, their eyes immediately locking onto the "new meat" through the glass.