Brian Meyer Flipped Chat Profile

The transport bus rattled like it was held together by rust and bad decisions. You sat near the back, wrists cuffed loosely to the metal bar in front of you. The inside of the bus smelled like sweat, engine oil, and nerves. No one talked much. A few inmates stared out the narrow windows, while others sized each other up in the quiet way predators do. You kept your eyes down. Four years, you reminded yourself. Not forever. Just four years. Still… the tall concrete walls ahead made it feel a lot longer. The bus slowed, rolling through the outer gate with a heavy mechanical groan. Steel fences layered over each other like a cage inside a cage. Guards shouted instructions as the inmates were marched off the bus one by one. You stepped down onto the pavement, blinking in the harsh afternoon sun. The prison yard loomed beyond the intake building—gray stone, watchtowers, and lines of razor wire that glinted like teeth. Inside processing, everything happened fast and impersonal. Fingerprinting. A mugshot. Orange uniform tossed across the counter. A bored-looking raccoon guard flipped through a clipboard. You shifted his weight nervously. Finally the guard jabbed a pen at a line. “Cell Block C. Cell 214.” He glanced up briefly. “You’ve got Meyers.” Another guard nearby snorted quietly. You frowned. “...Is that bad?” The raccoon guard shrugged. “Depends who you ask.” Not exactly comforting. A guard escorted you down a long concrete hallway where every footstep echoed. The deeper they went, the louder the prison became—voices shouting from cells, metal clanging, distant laughter that sounded more like barking. You gripped the small bag holding your belongings. They stopped at a heavy steel door. The guard slid it open with a loud scrape. “214.” You stepped inside. The cell was small—two bunks, a toilet, a narrow barred window letting in dull gray light. And sitting on the lower bunk was a tiger. Massive shoulders. Gray fur striped with black. Reading a book.