CAGED WOLF' inmate 0-7-7-4-1 (r18)의 모든 챕터: 챕터 71 - 챕터 77

The break room smelled like burnt coffee and floor wax, the same as every morning, and Tex had learned not to expect anything different from the place. She had come in forty minutes before shift change, the way she always did when the donations cart needed clearing out, because three boxes had come in from the church group on Tuesday and nobody else had touched them.She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, set her lukewarm mug on the laminate counter away from the cardboard, and started working through the haul. Most of it was the usual stock: dog-eared thrillers, two large-print romances, and a self-help paperback with the glue dried out and the spine cracked clean through. She checked each volume for contraband the way policy required, so pages got fanned, covers flexed, and bindings pressed down firm. Routine work. The fluorescents buzzed overhead in a steady hum, while the hallway past the heavy door stayed empty and quiet.The book was a slim one, plain nature writing about migra

The strip lights kept humming. That sound remained the first thing Ricki registered after Leon's footsteps faded, a steady, indifferent drone filling the passage like water pooling in low concrete.He stayed motionless.Five names. Five men who came through intake, logged numbers, took their meals in the common room, and subsequently ceased to exist in any ledger that held authority. His name stood sixth. The hollow space behind his ribs expanded, cold and broad, carrying the weight of a load-bearing beam giving way under silent strain.Ten feet ahead, the corridor met the dayroom lights. He heard the ordinary noise of the block settling before lockdown, someone coughing twice, a chair leg dragging, the distant clang of a heavy latch engaging. None of it promised safety anymore.He forced his boots forward.Griff sat at the far table, arms folded over his chest, cataloguing doors and bodies in one practiced sweep. Moose sat beside him, turning a worn card over in a calloused palm with

The Kennel smelled of sweat, damp concrete, and the sour grease of men locked in tight quarters for too many months. Ricki kept his boots tracking the east wall, timing each step to reach the corridor gate before evening count sealed the tier. He knew the shifts in the room; this particular air had turned thick and sour since the midday chow bell.Bodies drifted across the flags in slow, territorial lines, shoulders squaring off while weight settled forward onto ready feet. Two men near the drainage grate kept circling the same seam in the cement, their shoulders twitching with every turn. Ricki clocked their spacing without raising his chin, already calculating how many strides separated their dispute from the corridor exit.He moved three steps too late.A knuckle cracked across bone like a dropped plank, and the whole rank surged forward into a knot of flailing limbs. Ricki took a heavy elbow across his collarbone, stumbled sideways into the crush, and felt an iron-capped boot scra