This is new—like stepping into a university lecture hall after years of homeschooling.
I shove the main doors open, replacing the relative silence of the outside with the chaos that thrives within these walls. The air is thick with stench—sweat, urine, and unspeakable filth—pressing down on me, making every breath a struggle to endure. One stray thought about it nearly turns my stomach, and vomiting right now would be anything but impressive.
The prison itself is falling apart. Paint peels from the walls, deep cracks stretch like veins across the structure, and grime-covered metal bars cage the windows. Just enough light filters through to illuminate the graffiti—gang symbols, crude messages, desperate prayers. Noise dominates the space: guards barking orders, inmates shouting and laughing, metal doorsslamming shut, a relentless hum of voices blending into an oppressive roar.
Curses and taunts fly from every direction. Fights break out in pockets, some inmates throwing punches while others egg them on. A few bodies already litter the floor, unconscious or dead. The unsanitary conditions are staggering in the most horrifying way, with cockroaches so enormous they seem to occupy entire cells of their own, skittering across the walls and floors as if they run the place.
It’s suffocating in here. Every inch of my skin crawls with irritation, soaked through with sweat from both the relentless heat and the gnawing anxiety. The fake mustache doesn’t help—it scratches and itches like a constant reminder of my foolish compliance. Cane suggested a full disguise, insisting I blend in with the majority of the guards, and I had no choice but to obey. Not a single second has passed without me regretting it.
The further I walk, the heavier the air feels, and the worse my headache becomes. The hellhole I’m heading to lies at the far end of the corridor on the level below, yet every step stretches the distance into what feels like infinity.
The only silver lining? No one questions me. Today, I’m a Deputy Director of Security, after all.
The heat radiating from the sun-baked concrete walls presses down, thickening the air and amplifying the creeping claustrophobia winding up my spine. Until today, I didn’t even know I was claustrophobic, yet this place awakens something inside me—an unsettling feeling that feels both alien and strangely familiar, as if it has been lying in wait for me to notice it all along.
“¿Bajando?Going down?”
I jerk my eyes upward, meet the guard stationed near the entrance to my destination, and offer him a sharp, curt nod loaded with intent.
“El prisionero 57 necesita ser trasladado.Prisoner 57 needs to be transferred.”My voice remains steady, though a sudden spike of fear races through me.
I know Spanish, but speaking it fluently is an entirely different challenge. Like a fool, I spent hours rehearsing to myself, hoping it would iron out my accent and make me sound convincing. Judging by the guard’s clueless expression, it seems I’ve managed at least well enough to pass.
“Ten cuidado. Está loca otra vez.Be careful. She’s out of her mind again”,he says with a laugh. “No puedo creer que esté aquí por culpa de los aparatos robados. La mujer está loca.I can’t believe she’s here because of some stolen gadgets. The woman is insane.”
Another shiver snakes down my spine, but I smother any sign of it with a final, deliberate nod, forcing a serious mask onto my face. Keeping my head low, I descend the stairs with measured steps, fighting the urge to drift into thought and risk a stumble. Tripping now would be a catastrophic way to blow my cover, and I can’t afford even a hint of weakness.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a ring of keys, locate the right one, and slide it into the lock. The door clicks open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. A dim, barely functional lamp flickers overhead, casting a weak glow on the next door at the end of the narrow corridor. The shadows seem alive, shifting at the edges of my vision, whispering threats of something unseen lurking in the dark, waiting to strike.
I inhale sharply before stepping inside, making sure the main door shuts securely behind me. My boots clatter against the cold concrete as I make my way toward the right door, my pulse thudding faster with each step. Thoughts cascade through my mind, each one clamoring to be heard, louder than the last. Anticipation coils in my gut—vivid, electric, a stark contrast tothe oppressive, barren surroundings that press in on me from all sides.
Getting this far without raising suspicion was one thing, but what comes next? That’s the real fucking test. I have to extract the woman and get her to the truck waiting outside—quietly, cleanly, without drawing even a breath of unwanted attention.
As I draw closer, strange sounds seep through the door—muffled grunts, the scrape of something dragging across the floor. I slow my pace, leaning in, letting the tension settle over me like a tightening vise.
Then something slams against the door with such force that it shudders beneath my hand. I flinch, my pulse detonating in my chest as a strangled scream follows, raw and desperate, clawing at the silence.
Instinct overrides thought. I jam the key into the lock, twist hard, and burst into the room without a second’s hesitation.
The scene before me steals the air from my lungs. Every surface—walls, floor, even the ceiling—is soaked in crimson, the deep red turning almost black under the dim, flickering light. Two women lie motionless on the ground, their bodies sprawled in a widening pool of blood, its warmth inching toward my boots. The metallic stench hangs heavy, suffocating, mingling with the faint, sour odor of sweat that clings stubbornly to the air.
I snap out of my daze, my gaze snapping toward the source of the struggle. A woman—her—is locked in a brutal grapple with another prisoner, her hands coiled tightly around the other’s throat, squeezing the last gasps of air from her lungs.
“Fucking hell,” I curse, driving myself forward without hesitation.
She clings to her victim like a starving predator, her grip merciless and unrelenting. I yank at her arms, but she’s coiled around the woman with a strength that seems impossible, as iffueled by pure instinct. Anger roars in my chest, hot and heavy, and I feel the edges of control slipping away from me.
“¡Déjala ir!Let go of her!” I bark, driving my knee into the side of her stomach.
A sharp grunt tears from her lips, and finally, she loosens her grip. The woman falls to the floor like a discarded doll, completely motionless. I slam my arms around my target, hauling her up to her feet with swift, unrelenting force.
And then everything halts. The fury that had coursed through me drains in an instant as I lock my gaze with the same brown eyes I’ve memorized from her mugshot. They stare back, dull and unreadable, a vacant abyss lurking behind them.
Her skin is streaked with blood, a harsh contrast to the large, purple bruise blooming over her left eye. Her upper lip is split, a thin rivulet of red trailing from the corner. A neckerchief rests crookedly atop her head, a few honey-colored strands escaping to cling to her sweat-soaked forehead and the nape of her neck.
I swallow hard, my arms tightening around her. I don’t know why I do it when she doesn’t resist, when she remains still and silent, but something deep inside me insists.
I keep my gaze locked on her, the world around me fading into a blur. Beneath the bruises and battle scars, I see something—something that burns hotter, brighter, and fiercer than the sun blazing outside.
