Chapter Text
The smell.
It seeped everywhere. A sharp, moldy odor, like damp laundry left forgotten for too long. It mingled with the scent of cold metal, stale sweat, and disinfectant diluted to the point of uselessness. As soon as Connor had passed through the heavy prison doors, that stagnant aroma had wrapped around him like a second skin. The walls seemed to ooze the stench, steeped in decades of shattered lives.
And the sounds… they were nothing like the silence he had imagined.
There was the dry clatter of handcuffs, the metallic groan of sliding doors, and voices: sometimes shouts, sometimes harsh whispers that rolled between the walls like distant echoes. A chaotic, oppressive blend, almost alive. The boy carried that smell in his nose, those sounds in his head. They clung to him, refusing to leave, just like his memories.
It had all started a month and a half ago.
“Shit, if you do it, Stern, I’ll get you a Russian hooker and make her your wife for life!”
The voice had burst out behind him, mocking, almost hysterical. Connor froze for a moment, gripping the fake gun with trembling hands. It was light, far too light to be real, but it looked enough like a pistol to fool someone at first glance. A replica designed to fire plastic pellets. Those things could hurt, sure, but kill? Never.
He had gotten the gun from his cousin, an idiot obsessed with war video games. The kind of guy who spent hours simulating battles, fantasizing about being a medal-covered hero. Connor doubted that cousin would ever have the guts to fight for anything in real life. Yet it was because of him—or thanks to him, depending on the perspective—that the young man, barely in his twenties, was standing there that night, facing the window of a neighborhood grocery store, his heart pounding like it would burst.
“Do it, Stern!” the voice yelled again behind him.
Connor inhaled, the weight of the gazes on his back heavier than the toy in his hand.
It was supposed to be simple. Just a stupid prank. A joke gone too far.
And everything happened so fast.
Connor shoved the door open with his shoulder, the bell above it chiming far too loudly in the silence of the small grocery store. The old man behind the counter looked up, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t worried yet. Not yet.
“Money. In a bag. Now.”
Connor muttered the words in a hoarse voice, spitting them out as if against his own will. He pointed the fake gun toward the floor, too cowardly to meet the man’s eyes but not enough to turn and leave.
The old man squinted, as if he didn’t understand. So Connor raised his voice, trying to sound menacing, though he didn’t believe it himself.
“The money, dammit! Put it in a bag, NOW!”
That’s when everything fell apart.
The old man’s hands trembled. He mumbled something, maybe a plea, fumbling clumsily under the counter. But before his fingers could even reach the cash register, he froze. His eyes widened, his breath caught abruptly. And then he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, his head hitting the counter with a dull thud before his body crumpled to the floor.
Connor stood frozen, his sweaty hands still gripping the toy gun. He hadn’t even touched him. He hadn’t even directly threatened him. Yet there the old man lay, his limbs curled awkwardly, as if struck down by lightning.
A siren in the distance. The faint chime of the bell behind him. And Connor, unable to move, unable to think, just standing there, already cloaked in the smell of fear and cold metal.
That’s how he ended up here.
“Connor Stern.”
The judge’s voice echoed through the courtroom, dry and emotionless. The defendant didn’t dare look up. He stared at his clasped hands, as if hoping the verdict would somehow disappear into the void.
“You are sentenced to ten years in prison for attempted armed robbery resulting in the death of an individual.”
The gavel struck the wood. A sharp, final sound, almost as brutal as the old man’s body hitting the floor.
“You will be transferred to Detroit County Prison as soon as possible. In the meantime, a place in the detention center will be arranged. Thank you.”
Ten years.
The words echoed in his mind. They felt unreal, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. But it was real.
This was where it would all begin. In this smell, these sounds, and the cage he would now have to call “home.”
With his forehead pressed against the frosty window, the young man could almost feel his skin sticking to the glass. Each breath left a thin mist on the pane, further blurring the bleak view outside.
Outside, an oppressive gray sky blanketed a desolate landscape. Frozen fields stretched out, dotted with low houses whose tired roofs sagged. The city of Detroit receded into the distance, giving way to empty, gritty rural roads. The winding road seemed endless, flanked by bare trees whose gnarled branches stretched like fingers toward the sky.
Time felt frozen. His wrists bound in cuffs that were too tight, the pain in his arms grew steadily worse. The metal bit into his skin, cutting off circulation and leaving his fingers numb. But he remained silent, his jaw clenched. At the front of the bus, the guards exchanged a few words, their laughter punctuating the steady rumble of the engine. The air, heavy and stale, carried an unpleasant mix of stale sweat and the cold metal of chains that clinked with every movement.
Other prisoners sat on the worn seats, silent. Most stared blankly or at their feet. Some murmured to each other in low voices, their words muffled by the vibrations of the vehicle. One man farther down appeared to have fallen asleep, his head lolling with every bump. Every breath brought back that cloying smell, a blend of fear, resignation, and exhaustion, clinging to his skin. A prisoner two rows away chewed his cheek nervously, his face tense with anxiety. Another, barely older than Connor, stared at his cuffed hands as if willing them to break free.
No one spoke aloud.
The urge to vomit rose. The destination wasn’t just an abstract thought; it was a weight, heavy and impossible to ignore. The vehicle jolted on the poorly maintained road, each bump adding a wave of nausea. He could still remember his mother’s face before he boarded the bus.
In the distance, something emerged from the fog. The letters on a sign gradually became distinguishable, and the weight in his chest became unbearable.
“State Correctional Prison of Detroit – 5 miles.”
A metallic taste filled his mouth. His shoulders tensed further. There was no need to look out the window to understand. Shortly after, the bus slowed down. A massive structure appeared through the fogged-up glass. Gray, unyielding walls rose up, topped with barbed wire faintly gleaming under the floodlights. The watchtowers, impassive, seemed to watch, ready to swallow every breath.
The guards’ laughter at the front continued, disconnected from the palpable tension in the back. The chains jingled one last time as the vehicle came to a stop. These walls would soon be all he could see. This place was no longer a concept but a cruel reality, and he was about to enter it.
The bus came to a painful screeching halt, followed by oppressive silence. At the front, a massive guard suddenly stood up, his frame blocking part of the outside light. His belt weighed down by a baton and spare cuffs, he walked with confidence, his face broken by years of violence—one of those faces you associate with gratuitous brutality.
“On your feet, you pieces of shit! Come on, no dragging your asses, outside!” His voice cracked through the air, hoarse and saturated with contemptuous authority. He delivered a sharp baton strike to the back of a seat, making the man sitting there jump. “Move your fucking carcasses. You’re not rotting in my bus.”
The inmates began to stand up slowly, clumsy, their chains jingling with every movement. Connor stood as well, his wrists burning from the too-tight cuffs. His ankles were also shackled, a short chain linking his feet, leaving him barely enough freedom to move without falling. The pain in his wrists intensified as he straightened fully, but he kept his eyes down. He could feel the heavy gaze of the guard fixed on him.
“Look at this,” the man growled, advancing down the bus’s central aisle, his boots striking the metal floor. He stopped near an inmate struggling to stand and jabbed him in the side with his baton, just hard enough to make him groan. “You’ve got legs, you son of a bitch, so use them.”
The group formed a line, one behind the other, slowly moving toward the exit. Connor followed, focused on his feet. He tried not to stumble, but the chain around his ankles forced him to shuffle slightly, each step producing a metallic scrape on the floor.
“Seriously, this is the new batch?” another guard sneered, standing at the front with his arms crossed. “Bunch of babies. You’re gonna be a hit, guys. Trust me, there are people here who love fresh meat like you.”
Connor felt his face flush with shame, but he forced himself to show nothing. A coarse laugh broke out somewhere behind him.
“Move it!” the massive guard barked, striking Connor’s shoulder with the baton this time. The boy stumbled forward, almost tripping. The pain radiated through his arm, but he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He knew that a single word or even a glance would only make things worse.
As he stepped off the bus, the icy air struck him head-on. A gust bit at his face, but there was nothing freeing about the cold. The clinking of chains, the scraping of soles on wet concrete, and the guards’ shouts formed a strange symphony of humiliation.
Before them, the main building rose up, massive and soulless, its tall gray walls streaked with barbed wire. Spotlights around the watchtowers illuminated the walls, casting harsh shadows on the ground. The main gate, made of thick steel, was wide open, like a gaping maw ready to swallow them whole.
“Welcome to hell, you sons of bitches!” one of the guards shouted as they exited the bus, a carnivorous grin stretching across his face. “Hope you like company because your new buddies are dying to meet you. And trust me, you’re not gonna outshine them.”
Another burst into laughter, slapping the side of the bus loudly. “Move it! I don’t have all day!”
The group of newcomers advanced in silence, the echo of their chains mingling with the sound of boots striking the concrete floor. The corridors seemed endless, lit by pale fluorescent lights that pulsed with a raw, harsh glare, accentuating every detail of the cold, dirty concrete walls.
Connor’s throat tightened. The walls, austere and without the slightest imperfection, seemed to close in on him with every step.
When they reached the processing area, they were made to wait, standing in a line like cattle. Guards moved back and forth, their hard stares sweeping over the newcomers with casual disdain. Personal belongings were collected and placed into plastic bins labeled with numbers, as if to erase the last traces of their former lives.
“Name, first name, inmate number,” barked a guard behind a desk without looking up.
Connor, in a hoarse and hesitant voice, answered each question. In front of him, another inmate was trembling so much he could barely hold his bag of personal belongings.
When it was his turn, he removed his watch. The one he always wore—a simple steel watch with a slightly scratched face that had belonged to his father. He froze for a moment, his trembling fingers resting on the object, but the guard’s impatient stare forced him to let it go.
"Come on, get moving, kid. We don’t have all night." The tone was sharp, brutal. Connor felt a pang in his chest, but the sadness was quickly swept away by a wave of fear.
They kept moving forward, and this time the air grew heavier. The smell was different: a mix of chlorine, sweat, and something sour, almost rancid. They had arrived at the showers. One of the guards, a man with a patchy beard and a leering smile, stepped in front of them.
"Alright, you bastards, you know what’s next. Strip. Now. I don’t want to see anything left hanging around."
The order dropped like a blade. No one moved at first, the humiliation paralyzing the newcomers. Then, one by one, they began removing their clothes. Connor’s hands trembled as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. The cold in the room hit him as soon as he was shirtless, and he struggled to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze. When he was completely naked, he kept his eyes down, fixed on the grimy floor where thin rivulets of water pooled around the drains.
The guards roamed among them, their taunts crackling in the air, heavy with disdain and provocation. One of them stopped next to Connor, looking him up and down with a mocking smirk.
"I bet this one’ll end up someone’s bitch by tomorrow night," he sneered, his voice revolting. "Damn, when you’re as cute as that, you don’t screw up your life like this."
Shame crushed Connor, a burning wave rising from his stomach to his cheeks. He clenched his fists but said nothing. He knew that talking back would only make things worse. Instead, he remained still, jaw tight, like a terrified animal waiting for the storm to pass.
After the shower, they were subjected to a search. The humiliation was complete, each gesture from the guards reinforcing the idea that they were no longer individuals, just bodies, reduced to numbers. Finally, the cuffs on Connor’s wrists were removed, and he felt a brief moment of relief despite his surroundings.
A few minutes later, an orange uniform was tossed at him. "Put that on. You look pathetic naked," sneered another guard before turning away.
He slipped into the uniform. The coarse fabric scratched against his skin, and the smell of cleaning chemicals mixed with the sweat of previous wearers made him grimace. But at least his wrists and ankles were finally free.
"Alright, move it!" barked another guard, this one with a shaved head and massive forearms. "Split into two groups. Left side to the left office, the rest to the right. Move your asses, or you’ll go straight to your cell without food. And trust me, I don’t give a shit if you’re starving."
Connor joined one of the groups without thinking, moving mechanically, his fear and shame clinging to him like a second skin.
He soon found himself sitting on a cold chair, its hard plastic surface slightly sticky, as though the dampness of the air had seeped into it. He shivered at the icy contact through the thin fabric of his orange uniform. The room around him was just as inhospitable: dull gray walls, a harsh fluorescent light flickering overhead, and a scratched metal desk at the center, offering no reprieve from the oppressive atmosphere.
Behind the desk sat a man in his fifties, leafing through a thick file. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back up without looking up. On the desk, a metal nameplate read: J. Fowler. His tired features and balding head didn’t make him particularly intimidating, but the lack of a smile on his face made him as cold as the room itself.
"Connor… Stern?" he finally said in a raspy voice, lifting his tired eyes to the young man in front of him. Connor nodded, uneasy, his fingers gripping his knees tightly. "My name is Jeffrey Fowler. I’ll be your counselor while you’re here," the man continued, placing his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. "Alright, let’s take a look at your file..."
He turned the pages slowly and methodically, his brows furrowing slightly as he read. The silence was unbearable for Connor, each second stretching into eternity.
"Armed robbery… well, ‘armed’ ," Jeffrey Fowler said, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he glanced at the young man over his rectangular glasses. He held the file open in his thick hands, flipping through it with deliberate nonchalance. "A fake weapon, huh? Bravo, kid. Hell of a start to adult life."
He paused, barely looking up before continuing. "And on top of that, someone had a heart attack because of you. Dead on the spot."
The final words hung heavy in the air. Connor felt his stomach twist and his throat tighten. Despite the fear gnawing at him, he tried to mumble a defense, futile and desperate:
"I… I didn’t mean for him to die… it was just… a dare, with a toy gun…"
His voice, trembling and faint, seemed to evaporate in the suffocating atmosphere of the office. Hearing the excuse, Fowler finally looked up, setting the file down in front of him. His eyebrows rose in incredulity before furrowing into a hard, contemptuous scowl.
" Just ? A toy gun, huh?" Fowler repeated, his tone cutting with icy sharpness. He slapped the file flat onto the desk with a sharp motion, the sound making Connor flinch and shrink further into his chair. "Listen to me, kid. That toy, as you call it, caused a man’s death. Maybe not directly, but he’s dead because of you. And your mistake, your ‘dare,’ just cost you ten years of your miserable little life."
Connor immediately lowered his eyes, unable to hold the counselor’s piercing gaze. His entire body seemed to shrink, as though he wanted to disappear. He clenched his hands on his knees, his nails digging into his palms to stifle the wave of shame and panic washing over him.
Fowler leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He let the silence linger in the room, ensuring his words had sunk deep into the young man’s mind. Then he continued, his tone more professional but still charged with authority.
"Alright. Now that we’ve established why you’re here, listen carefully because I’m not going to repeat myself. First, visitation. You’ll get one visit per week. Just one. No physical contact with visitors, except for a quick handshake at the beginning and end. Every conversation is monitored. If you try to pass anything—drugs, forbidden messages, I don’t care—you lose your visitation rights. Understood?"
Connor nodded slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the worn edge of the wooden desk.
"Next, security. This isn’t a summer camp. You keep your head down. No fights, no messing with other inmates, and definitely no trouble with the guards. The rules are simple: obey, and keep your mouth shut. If you’re involved in anything, even if you didn’t start it, you’ll pay. Immediately. Want to know how? Solitary. Total isolation. A tiny cell, 23 hours a day. No TV, no books, no natural light. Just you and your thoughts. Trust me, that’s not a place you want to end up."
He paused, adjusting his glasses before continuing, his tone becoming almost pedagogical.
"Third, behavior. The guards here, they’re the law. If one of them tells you to jump, you ask how high. You might think they’re assholes—and maybe they are—but they’re the ones who decide whether your life is hell or just miserable. So play it smart. Say nothing, do nothing. If you’ve got problems, you talk to me. Not to the other inmates. Alliances, little cliques? That’s like sticking your foot in a bear trap. Once you’re in, you don’t get out."
Connor remained silent, the weight of his counselor’s words sinking deep into his consciousness. Everything about this place screamed that he didn’t belong, that he was going to be crushed. But he didn’t dare speak.
"Finally," the man concluded, leaning slightly forward to lock eyes with the young man, "you do your time. No more, no less. If you try to act smart, draw attention to yourself, or mess around, these ten years can turn into twelve, fifteen, even more. So stay invisible, kid. Because in here, this is a place where the weak disappear." He straightened, crossing his arms again. "Got it?"
Connor nodded once more, murmuring a weak, "Yes."
"Good. Now go join your group. And don’t make waves."
Without another word, Connor stood, avoiding his counselor’s gaze, and headed for the door. His chest felt heavy, and each step seemed to drag him deeper into this descent into hell.
Dinner had been rushed. Due to delays caused by the snow, the new arrivals had been spared from encountering the other inmates in the cafeteria. But that didn’t make the experience any less unpleasant. The dining hall, vast and poorly lit, echoed with the clatter of metal trays and the indifferent chatter of the guards stationed nearby, their voices detached and unfeeling. The inmates had to serve themselves from steel bins set along a counter, though there was little left that could be called fresh or appetizing.
Connor glanced at his tray, his hands trembling from exhaustion and anxiety. A spoonful of gray, viscous, gritty mash had been slopped into one corner, accompanied by a piece of meat he dared not identify, half-covered in an oily brown sauce. The meal was rounded off with a slice of stale bread and a shriveled apple.
The smell of the tray alone was enough to kill his appetite. A bland yet unpleasant odor—a mix of cold grease and something faintly sour. Connor sat at an empty table, staring at his tray without touching anything. His throat was so tight he doubted he could swallow even if he tried.
The meal didn’t last long. The guards hurried them along. Once the trays were placed back on the counter, they were grouped together and escorted to the dormitory.
They walked in single file down the long, freezing, dark hallways, their footsteps echoing off the concrete floor. The walls were marked with old graffiti, cracks, and the wear of time, silent evidence of the lives that had passed through. Connor felt as though these corridors would never end. His arms clutched his torso in an attempt to hold on to a shred of warmth, the night air seeping into even this confined space.
They finally reached Dormitory B. The atmosphere there was even heavier, oppressive, as if the walls themselves held the screams and whispers of the inmates. The group stopped in front of a series of darkened cells, aligned like tombs on two levels. The space was dimly lit by faint white lights hanging from the ceiling, casting long, unsettling shadows.
In front of them stood the head guard. Connor recognized him instantly: he was the one who had made a crude comment about his body in the showers. That same cruel smirk was etched on his face. He looked them over one by one, like a predator inspecting its prey.
"Alright," he began, his voice rough and commanding, "I’m going to assign you to your cells. And don’t get your hopes up—there’s no cell where you’ll be alone. If you were expecting a quiet little corner, you’ve got another thing coming."
He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, his voice echoing in the space. "It’s real simple here. You eat at six in the morning, noon, and five in the evening. Not a minute more, not a minute less. If you’re late, no food."
A harsh laugh escaped his lips as he continued to pace along the line. "Lights out is at ten. You’d better be in your beds and shut up before the lights go off. If we hear even one noise, it’s straight to solitary, so don’t be screwing your cellmate like animals."
He stopped, laughing at his own joke, and eyed one of the newcomers—a stocky man who looked like he wanted to retort, but a single glance from the guard was enough to make him drop his gaze. "Tomorrow morning, you’ll be assigned jobs. There’s work for everyone: cleaning, kitchen duty, workshops… If you don’t show up or if you slack off, it’s back to solitary. Oh, and we’ll dock days off your sentence too, for those of you hoping to get out someday."
The guard finally stopped in front of Connor, fixing him with a mocking stare. He added, in a cutting tone: "It’s simple, kid. Here, you work, you eat what you’re given, and you keep your mouth shut. Otherwise, it’s hell, and trust me, I like when things go wrong."
Connor immediately averted his eyes, feeling bile rise in his throat. He didn’t dare reply. The line began moving again, and the newcomers were escorted one by one to their assigned cells. Connor waited, his breath shallow, until it was his turn. He was led to the upper level of the dormitory, following the guard in tense silence. His cell number was shouted aloud, like an additional sentence.
The metal door opened with a sharp creak, revealing a narrow, oppressive space. Inside, an man, under the blanket was already lying on the bottom bunk. Or perhaps he was pretending to sleep, his back turned toward the entrance. Connor didn’t try to check. This wasn’t the time.
The guard handed Connor a rough blanket and a pillow as thin as a sheet of paper, its edges already frayed. "Here you go, kid. Sweet dreams." His tone, dripping with sarcasm, quickly turned into an implicit threat. "And not a sound, got it?"
Connor nodded without a word, then stepped into the cell. The door closed behind him with a loud metallic clang that echoed painfully in his skull. That sound, he knew, would soon become all too familiar.
He stood there, motionless, his gaze sweeping over the space that would be his for the next ten years. The gray walls were covered in scratches and carved words, fragments of broken souls who had passed through this place before him. A single rusty sink stood in one corner, accompanied by a tiny toilet. Everything looked old, dirty, almost suffocating.
The top bunk awaited him, bare and uninviting. Connor climbed up cautiously, the frame creaking under his weight. Once lying down, he immediately felt the hard mattress offering no relief. He spread the blanket over himself and placed the pillow under his head, but it didn’t help.
Then he noticed it. That smell. The smell that had already seeped into his clothes and seemed to permeate his very bones. A smell of stagnant mildew, acrid sweat, cheap disinfectant, and the rancid stench of humanity crammed together. It mingled with the cold metal and the oppressive air, like a toxic mix that made him want to hold his breath. Connor forced himself to take a deep breath, but it only intensified the nausea tightening his stomach. He realized this smell would be his constant companion. It would surround him, envelop him, follow him everywhere.
A bitter taste rose in his throat, but he swallowed it, his gaze fixed on the dirty ceiling, so close above him. A tear slowly rolled down the side of his face, tracing a warm, salty line on his cold skin. It was the first he had shed since the start of this hellish day. He closed his eyes, exhausted. The shame, the fear, and the omnipresent smell swirled in his mind, clinging to him like a second skin. He had no energy left to resist.
And so, despite everything—despite the smell, despite the discomfort, despite the ten years stretching out before him like an endless desert—Connor fell asleep. A part of him hoped he wouldn’t wake up.