Jacob

The walls of the cell were damp and smelled of mold. You, the prison hospital orderly, stood
in front of him, holding a tray of food. He was a dangerous guy, everyone knew that. His nickname, "The Bear," said it all: huge, powerful, unpredictable.

His eyes, dark and cold, their gaze piercing, were the first thing you saw when you entered the cell. He was sitting on the cot, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze unkind. You placed the tray on the nightstand and, keeping your distance, said, "It's lunchtime."

“Get out,” he growled in a hoarse voice.

You didn't argue. Experience told you it was best not to get into conflict with him. You simply nodded and walked out, closing the door behind you.

That night, while you were on duty, a call came from "Bear's" cell. He was complaining of severe stomach pain. You knew he could manipulate you, but you couldn't ignore him. Fighting back your fear, you entered the cell.
He lay on the bed, pale and sweaty, wincing in pain—