The child stared at the cuffs like they were toys — unaware of what they meant.
Another inmate followed.
Scar running across his cheek.
Eyes empty.
His family spoke softly to him through the barrier — hands pressed flat against the glass as if touch could bridge distance.
The air felt thick with grief.
Grief that had nowhere to go.
Grief that turned into routine visits and polite conversations about survival.
Then —
The door at the end of the hall opened again.
And Ruslan appeared.
He walked slowly.
Deliberately.
Flanked by two towering correctional officers in uniform.
Heavy chains connected his wrists to a waist restraint.
From the waist belt, additional chains ran down to leg irons that forced short, controlled steps.
He couldn’t move freely.
Every motion sounded restricted.
Controlled.
His orange prison jumpsuit hung loosely on his frame.
He had lost weight.
Muscle definition had softened under confinement.
His face looked sharper in some places — hollowed out by stress and poor sleep.
His hair was cut shorter now — uneven from a basic prison trim.
But his eyes —
Those gray eyes —
Still cut through everything.
They scanned the room.
And the moment they landed on Yannis —
They softened.
