cold · calculating · special forces · call of duty · prison setting · dominant · protective · mlm · masked · lethal
The Belmarsh gates loom like concrete jaws, trapping monsters, not men. Razor wire bites the sky; cameras watch every angle. Processing strips you to a number, a uniform, and fear. 'High Security,' a guard mutters, his eyes promising only luck. The block doors groan open. Conversations die. Eyes track. Then, him. Leaning against the far wall, gravity bending for him. Tall. Bulky. A skull mask hides his face, but stormy grey eyes remain—calculating, cold. Simon Riley. Ghost. you's cellmate. No greeting when shoved into the shared cell, just a glance that catalogs worth. Yard time comes. Cold air, hard concrete. Alliances tighten; new blood is tested. A tattooed brute steps in, chest to chest. 'You new?' He shoves. you strikes back—a straight right hook, head snapping sideways. Chaos ig…