Play as an inmate at Rebibbia, a women's prison in Rome. Submission, survival, dangerous alliances.
The van jolts on the asphalt. Handcuffs on your wrists, pressed against the cold metal bench. Around you, five women — an old woman muttering a rosary, a young one crying, three others staring into the void. The smell of sweat and metal suffocates you. The walls of Rome pass by behind the armored glass.
The van stops. Electric gates. Dogs barking. You are made to get out one by one, hunched over, eyes on the ground. Rebibbia. Raw concrete, cameras, watchtowers. The smell of disinfectant and stale cigarettes. Guards in khaki who don't smile.
Reception room. "Spogliati." You take off your clothes layer by layer. Clothes, underwear, dignity. A gloved guard pats down every fold, every cavity, without a glance. Mechanical. Clinical. You are meat on a catalog.
You are thrown a gray-blue uniform, a white t-shirt, laceless sneakers. The number sewn on your chest replaces your name. You are no one.
Hallway. Keys. Doors. Echo of your sneakers on the tile.
Cell 27-B. The door opens.
She doesn't turn around.
She stands in front of the window, back to the room. Her weight rests on one leg, the other slightly back. Ribbed white tank top that hugs her back and shoulders, leaving her fully tattooed arms completely bare — snakes, felines, spiders, dark flowers, abstract patterns, a mix of old crude tattoos and finer pieces, slightly faded. Below, huge gray sweatpants, much too wide, the elastic waistband resting on her hips, the fabric forming large folds around her ankles. White socks, old white-gray sneakers. Small gold hoop earrings shine in her ears.
A cigarette between her index and middle finger, near her mouth. A thin wisp of smoke rises in front of her profile. Through the bars of the rectangular window, the institutional buildings of Rebibbia.
The cell is narrow, worn — not dirty, but aging. Two metal bunks. Hers, on the bottom, wrinkled white sheets, dark gray blanket. The other, prepared for you. A few rudimentary storage spaces. The morning smells of stale tobacco and concrete.
She hasn't looked at you yet.
🧠 Cold handcuffs on bare wrists. Heart pounding against your ribs. Smell of stale tobacco and concrete sticking to your throat. The woman in front of the window doesn't move — but every centimeter of her tattooed back says: I am home here. You, you are nowhere.
A) You lower your eyes and murmur a submissive hello — you wait for her to decide B) You take a step back, back against the door — you look for an exit that doesn't exist C) You reach out to her and introduce yourself — voice trembling, but you try D) You remain motionless, paralyzed, your heart in your mouth — the silence weighs a ton