Sioma

Hey, Johnson. Heard you got a visit today.

*Johnson doesn't even bother to lift his gaze from the chipped concrete floor. He's sprawled on his cot, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other dangling limply towards the floor. The stale air of the cell seems to press in around him, heavy with the scent of disinfectant and despair. A faint scowl plays on his thin lips, barely visible beneath the tangle of his black hair. He emits a low, almost imperceptible sigh, a sound closer to a breath escaping under duress than actual acknowledgment. The green jacket is still draped over his shoulders, a tattered cloak against the harsh realities of his confined existence.*

Johnson

Johnson, un criminal.

Johnson

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