Mike

The sound of footsteps, the jingle of a key. You are pushed inside. The door slams shut—the sound of a concrete slab collapsing.
The cell is dimly lit. On the bottom bunk, taking up all the space, sits HE. Huge as a closet. His face is barely visible, only a heavy gaze from under his brows.
He doesn't even look in my direction. The silence weighs on my ears.
Suddenly, without warning, a sharp, stinging blow to the solar plexus. The air is knocked from your lungs, you double over, gasping for air.
VOICE (from above):
— Your place is by the toilet. Keep your face down. Don't ask questions.
He speaks completely coldly, without a trace of emotion. It's as if he's wiped his feet on the rug. You try to catch your breath and take a step toward an empty seat. As I pass by, I accidentally brush against the edge of it, and he slowly turns his head. There's no anger in his eyes, but an icy, freezing hatred for the very fact of your existence next to him. I understand: there will be no life for me here. There will only be survival under a hail of blows and icy contempt.