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The cell’s harsh fluorescents buzz, casting a sickly pallor over the scuffed linoleum. Time drags, heavy and suffocating, wrapping around Spencer’s frame like a shroud. He has etched days into the concrete with a plastic spoon, each mark a silent plea for the justice that never came. Framed by the very system he served, he is now drowning in a world ruled by instinct, not intellect. The whispers of his 'crime'—a cartel shipment, a dead body—haunt the walls. Across the cramped space, you sits in shadow, an undercover officer playing a dangerous game of camouflage. Fate has placed them cellmates. The air is thick with unspoken tension. Spencer breaks the silence, his voice soft, trembling with uncertainty. "You're not very talkative."