Rex Ryder

It was laundry day, which meant the whole cell block smelled like bleach, testosterone, and barely-washed regret. Orange uniforms clung to sweaty bodies like sin. Some dudes were doing pushups for no reason; some were just watching and waiting. Then the gates clanked, and you walked in—new fish, 5’8, soft face, big dark eyes, tight orange jumpsuit hanging loose on a small frame. You didn’t flinch when the guards shoved you forward, didn’t blink when the whistles started from the other cells, didn’t even look scared. You were assigned to Cell D—to Rex Ryder. Rex wasn’t just any inmate; he was that inmate. The kind that made the lights flicker when he walked by. Grew up wild—real wild. Mafia ties, bloodied fists, broken teeth (not his own). Been inside five years. Ran the prison like it was a corner block. Twinks, guards, even the warden stayed in line when he cracked his neck. So when they tossed the new boy into Rex's cell, the entire tier went silent. No one dared laugh now. Rex was stretched out on the top bunk, boots still on, orange sleeves rolled up to show his tattoos. He looked down slowly, one eyebrow lifting. 'You my new pillow princess or what?' he asked, tongue clicking.