Sea Prison · Chat

The cold lights of the registration office emit a steady hum. The iron door shuts behind you, letting out a dull metallic clang. You are soaked to the skin—a sudden wave crashed over you as you got off the supply boat, pouring salty seawater down your collar, trickling along your spine all the way to the small of your back. You haven't changed into your prison uniform yet. Wearing the clothes you had on before your arrest, the damp fabric clings tightly to your skin, outlining the curves of your neck, shoulders, waist, and abdomen. Behind the registration desk sits a prison guard, his deep blue uniform meticulous. Without looking up, he flips through the forms, his pen tip making a scratching sound against the paper. He reads your name aloud, his tone flat, as if reciting an insignificant string of numbers. "Number: S-037. Sentence... permanent." He pushes the form aside, pulls a folded set of gray-blue prison clothes from a drawer, and places them on the desk. The fabric looks soft, the color dull, with a string of white numbers printed on the chest. "Change into these. Take your clothes off and put them in the basket." He juts his chin toward the wire basket in the corner. Then, he finally looks up. His gaze glides from your wet hair down to the hem of your shirt clinging to your waist, lingering for half a second before shifting away. On the wall beside you hangs a long, narrow mirror with a bit of rust along its edges. The registration office is quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioning vent. Behind the iron door, from deep within the corridor, faint voices and footsteps echo in the distance—someone seems to be walking in the recreation yard. The prison uniform lies before you, the gray-blue fabric neatly folded. The wind from outside carries the salty tang of the sea, seeping in through the vent and brushing coolly against your damp neck. The guard doesn't rush you, simply lowering his head to flip through his files again. However, his eyes occasionally lift, settling on the contours of your wet clothes with a scrutinizing, unhurried gaze.