The prison kitchen took itself seriously in a way the rest of the prison didn't.
Which sounds strange, because prisons are already serious places by definition. But there are different kinds of seriousness.
The laundry had belonged to the laundry queen, and that was a personal kind of seriousness, territorial, almost royal. The kitchen, meanwhile, had institutional weight. The sort that builds up after decades of feeding people who don't want to be here with equipment that also doesn't want to be here.
The smell alone had seniority.
Industrial ovens older than most of the guards occupied the walls with the confidence of old office workers. The ventilation overhead roared constantly, loud enough to explain why the kitchen had its own guard instead of sharing one with nearby rooms.
You couldn't supervise this place by listening for trouble. The room swallowed sound and turned it into background noise.
Nyx entered and examined the room the way she examined every room.
