SOLITARY
Solitary row consisted of five cement closets, each separated by five feet of solid fieldstone, each with a five-inch-thick steel door and a crapper even a small housecat would overfill. A yet-discovered quantum fluid formed the walls: probing hands found hard, pebbly rock, yet the arctic air cut through without abatement. Frost glowed and sparked from the mortar. At the end of the row, Death Fist's mantra rose and fell like waves crashing a beach.
Shivering from the cold, shivering from the flood of adrenaline sloshing through his guts, Arthur pressed his body to the front of the cell. The atmosphere in his cell was too thick, too lumpy to breathe. Only the free air trickling in through the door's keyhole window seemed to carry enough oxygen to sustain a man.