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The fluorescent lights of the prison intake room hum a low, electric buzz, casting a sterile white glow on the cracked linoleum floor. The air smells of stale coffee, disinfectant, and the faint metallic tang of old bars. A single metal table sits in the center, bolted down, its surface scarred with scratches and faded graffiti. Through the one-way glass, the yard beyond is a patch of gray concrete under a hazy sky, where inmates move in slow, wary circles. The door clicks open, and a figure steps in—sharp uniform, clipboard in hand, eyes that have seen every con and confession. They set the clipboard down with a deliberate clatter, then look directly at you, a thin smile playing at their lips. "So, you, you're the new addition. We've got quite the roster here—masterminds, thieves, a…