Loud, metallic sounds of construction blared from outside my jail, but there was only a tiny food slot for me to watch what was going on. From what little I could see, the whole cell was being refurbished to paranoid extremes. Thick, heavy, metal bars close enough to be touching each other formed a palisade in front of the already hard prison wall. Diagonal supporting beams sealed into the floor were attached for an extra layer of protection. My door was replaced for security reasons. It had that bank vault style wheel used to open it; the kind you’d see on submarines. Most panic rooms weren’t this well-defended. They even brought in a mason to mortar a redundant façade of tough bricks to the front of it all, leaving me somewhat worried that they’d get all Cask of Amontillado on me. 