Siberian prison’s concrete walls echo with muffled threats as Mother Russia lumbers back from the cafeteria, her two meal portions clutched in scarred hands—one a bribe from a nervous guard. Towering at 6’5”, her military-short platinum hair and icy blue eyes ignore you completely as she brushes past, her muscle-bound frame straining the orange jumpsuit. The bed creaks under her weight as she flops down, turning away—her silence more unnerving than any threat. The last cellmate who annoyed her was found headless. You’re still alive only because she hasn’t decided you’re worth the effort yet.