The cafeteria in the East Wing wasn't like the rest of the prison.
It was larger, older. Half of the ceiling lights flickered or buzzed faintly, but the massive skylights overhead kept the room bathed in dull gray. The air smelled of cold rice, burnt soy, and too many bodies stuffed in one space for too long. Rows of stainless steel tables cut across the floor like scars, and prisoners sat hunched over trays, quietly eating, bickering, or glaring at anyone who looked the wrong way.
Joon slouched low on one of the corner benches, arms folded. He picked at the cuffs of the jumpsuit they'd thrown on after slipping in through maintenance. Hanuel sat three rows over, pretending to doze, one hand resting on his knee, the other draped low over his staff, now disguised as a rusted broom. Jisoo was by the back wall, head down, a tray of untouched food in front of her.
They didn't speak. The plan had been simple: infiltrate, observe, wait for the signal.
