"The jury finds the defendant, Spencer M. Reid, guilty of first degree murder."

That was the day his life ended. Spencer walked, his hands uncomfortably placed behind his back, restrained by cold and sharp metal. He lowered his head, not even bothering to turn and look at his friends as he was escorted out of the courtroom by the armed men.

Soon he was in the cold prison, being stared at by dozens of angry, hungry looking eyes. This prison didn't look as bad as he thought it would, at least. There were doors instead of bars, though the cells were a bit smaller than he'd expected. There was a large area for just hanging about, which most of the inmates were currently doing. Some were talking, some playing cards, some exercising and some just sat alone. Most of them were eyeing him carefully, like he was a piece of meat. Others paid no attention to him. The guard brought him to a door with the numbers '163' engraved on a little metal card in the center of it. The door was slightly cracked open, but Spencer couldn't see anything inside.

"This is your cell. You have one cell mate, a bunk bed, a desk and a chair," the guard said plainly, as if he had said it a hundred times before. He probably had. He opened the door to reveal a slim, well muscled young man lying on the bottom bunk, holding a sketch pad and pencil. He was shirtless and probably just a couple years older than Spencer. He looked up from his drawing to inspect his new cellmate, and seemed pleased.

"Hey kid," he said lazily as Spencer walked in the room.

"Hello," Spencer said awkwardly as he stood there, not entirely sure of what to do.

"What's the name?" the other man asked, not really sounding too curious.

"M-my name is D-," he had to stop himself from saying it, in here he wasn't a doctor, not a genius, just Spencer Reid, possibly somebody's future bitch; a wimpy, scrawny kid who talked too much. "Spencer Reid."

"Cool. It's Michael, by the way, you can call me Mike or whatever," he grumbled as he continued to draw. Spencer shifted uncomfortably. "Oh you can sit, dude," Michael said as he sat up, making space for Spencer to sit on the small, uncomfortable looking bed.

"So… what do you do around here besides draw?" Spencer asked awkwardly.

"Nothing, really, I just hang out in here and draw most of the time. I don't really talk to any others and I've never had a roomie before," Michael stated. He turned for a split second to look at his roommate, and couldn't imagine how a kid like him ended up in here. "What did you do to get yourself locked up?"

"I'm in for first degree murder. Twenty-five years," Spencer said, his voice trailing off. Perhaps if he stopped the story there, people wouldn't want to mess with him.

"Wow, a kid like you? Damn. I'm not really in for anything, actually. I was involved with the wrong people at the wrong time, you know? I ended up in here for something stupid, and after I got out shit got bad. I ended up back in here on false charges a couple months later, and I've been here ever since. That was about a year ago," Michael said casually.

Spencer wasn't sure what to think of this guy. For God's sake, he was a profiler and he couldn't figure out a thing. Something about this guy made him absolutely unreadable. Maybe his mind was just a bit hazy from all of this mess. He still didn't like it.

"So… what's it like in here?" Spencer asked, not actually wanting an answer but needing to break the awkward silence.

"Cold at night, hot during the day, sometimes it gets violent but mostly people stick to themselves or their group. You better be careful out there though, man. If one of the tough guys sees a kid like you… well you just better hope they don't catch you alone." Spencer's mind flashed with mental images. He knew what happened to people like him in places like this.

He just really hoped his new roommate wasn't planning on anything under that calm mask.

It was almost time to lock up for the night, so he'd see soon.

Within thirty minutes, the guards did their check before lock up, and then it was eerily quiet.

"You can have the top bunk," Michael said tiredly as he slipped on his shirt and laid back. Spencer looked around.

"There's no blanket or anything up here…" He remembered what Michael had said about cold nights here. He didn't really like the idea of sleeping on a thin mattress without a blanket or pillow, either.

"Well you can sleep down here for tonight, and tomorrow you can get your stuff," Michael offered. Spencer nervously sat down on the edge of the bottom bunk. Michael laughed quietly and looked at the younger man, "I won't bite, you know."

Spencer looked at his cellmate and let out a small sigh before awkwardly sliding underneath the blanket next to Michael.

"Night, Spence."