Chapter 2

Percy

The van moves.

It smells like disinfectant and old sweat. Not the sharp, sterile kind either, the cheap kind that only half masks what’s soaked into the metal over the years. Fear. Vomit. Blood that’s been scrubbed but never erased. 

I sit on the narrow bench with my wrists cuffed in front of me, ankles chained, the vibration of the engine rattling up through my bones. 

I hear the door slam shut behind me again, or I imagine it, I don’t know.

That sound, thick and final, doesn’t do what it’s supposed to. There’s no jolt of panic, no tightening in my chest, just a faint acknowledgment, like checking off an item on a list. 

This is happening.

The guard across from me doesn’t look at my face. He keeps his eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, jaw set, posture rigid. Like if he looks directly at me, something might leak out. Judgment? Curiosity? I’m not sure which one he’s avoiding more.

I lean my head back against the wall on the side. Cold metal kisses my scalp.

The courthouse fades behind us, brick and stone shrinking into nothing. Reporters. Cameras. Strangers. 

Now the road hums beneath us, tires rolling over cracks and seams, and my body sways with every turn. The city slides by through the narrow, barred window, people walking, laughing, living lives that no longer intersect with mine.

I wonder, briefly, if they feel it. If something in the air changes when a man like me passes by.

Probably not.

The van hits a pothole, and the chain between my ankles bites into my skin. Pain sparks, sharp and clean, and for half a second, I welcome it. At least it’s real.

The guard finally speaks. “You good?” Not out of concern, but just the procedure.

“Yeah,” I say.

He nods, satisfied, and goes back to his silence.

Time stretches, minutes blur into something shapeless. I try counting turns, landmarks, anything to mark progress, but eventually even that feels pointless. Wherever we’re going, I’ll get there. Resistance doesn’t exist anymore. The system moves, and I move with it.

Amidst my thoughts Clay's smug and smiling face surfaces, making me tighten my jaw. It’s like he’s laughing at me.

If anything, though, I should be the one happy, and I am. There's a hollow satisfaction there, buried deep and quiet. A sense of balance restored. Cause and effect.

I don’t push the thought away. I let it sit.

Then the van slows, gravel crunches under the tires, loud in the sudden quiet. The engine idles, then cuts. Another door opens somewhere up front. 

Then I hear footsteps.

The door across from me opens instead of the one behind. Light floods in, harsh and white. I squint, blinking, as a different guard steps into view. Older. Grayer. His uniform fits like it’s been worn into submission.

“Blackwell,” he says.

I straighten without being told.

“Yes, you should know.”

“Come with me.”

The first guard undoes my chains with brisk efficiency. Metal clinks. Pressure releases. My wrists ache as blood rushes back in.

I step down from the van onto solid ground. The air smells different here: trees, dirt, something faintly medicinal. Not the sharp reek of a city jail. This isn’t where I expected to be.

The building in front of us is low and sprawling, more hospital than fortress. Pale walls. Clean lines. Too much open space.

They lead me inside, through a side entrance that avoids the main intake. There’s no shouting or echoing chaos. Just quiet hallways and the soft squeak of rubber soles on polished floors. Unlike what I used to see on TV.

We stop at a small office, and the older guard gestures for me to sit. Which I do. He flips open a file, skims it, then clears his throat.

“Due to… a few circumstances, you’ll be housed separately.”

I don’t know why the information surprises me. Of course, my father said he made a few arrangements.

I wait while they finish whatever paperwork and procedures they need before taking me to my room. I’m already exhausted. But I notice the older guard watching me, as if he expects me to say something. I don’t. I just stare back, ignore him, and wait.

“Private ward. Medical-adjacent. Restricted access. Still under full supervision.” His eyes stay on me as he speaks. When I remain silent, he turns to the other guard and adds, “Room 105,” then flicks his hand in a dismissive gesture.

We move forward.

“This isn’t a luxury,” the guard says after a moment. “It’s for your safety.”

“My safety,” I repeat, letting the irony sit on my tongue.

He nods once. “Follow me.”

The ward is quieter than the rest of the facility. The doors are spaced farther apart, each door with iron bars before the main door. The windows don’t have bars, though the glass is thick and reinforced. Cameras sit discreetly in the corners, small but impossible to miss.

He leads me into a room.

There’s a single bed with white sheets. A desk bolted to the floor. A small bookshelf holding a few books, which, for the sake of my sanity, I hope aren’t self-help titles. A window looks out onto a courtyard enclosed by high walls.

No roommate. Just me and this contained little world.

I stand there while the guard explains the rules. Lights out. Meal schedules. Limited visitation. Therapy sessions available upon request.

I almost laugh at that. Therapy for what?

When he finishes, he hesitates. “Your family will be informed that you’re settled.”

“Good,” I say.

Then he leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him. A second later, I hear the iron bar slide into place, sealing me in. Then there is nothing.

I drop onto the bed on my back and release a long breath.

This is supposed to be mercy. A cushion. A compromise between punishment and privilege. It doesn’t soften anything. If anything, it sharpens it. There is no distraction here. No noise to drown out my thoughts. No other bodies to remind me I am not alone in this place.

Just me.

I think about my father and what he did for me, whether he pulled those strings for my sake or for his own. Whether it was so the Blackwell name would not be written across prison walls in blood, or simply so I would be kept safe.

I lie still, staring at the ceiling.

This is prison.

Not the version they sell on television. Not yet. But it is still a narrowing of the world. A shrinking. Every choice reduced to compliance or consequence.

Beyond these walls, my name will be dissected and debated, stripped down into headlines and cautionary tales. Billionaire’s Son Turned Killer. Privilege Meets Justice.

I don’t care. It doesn’t matter in here, especially knowing I am protected.

The thoughts circle until sleep finally takes me.

I wake with pressure in my body and realize I need to relieve myself. The guard never told me how. I sit up and scan the room, searching for some way to call someone, and that is when I notice two buttons on my bed cupboard, one red, one blue.

I move to press one, then pause when I notice a narrow door set into the wall at the far end of my room. It barely looks wide enough for me to fit through. How did I miss that? The surface blends almost perfectly with the rest of the room.

I pull it open and find a bathroom. A toilet sits in the corner, with a shower head fixed to the wall beside it. An iron bar runs along one side, probably for a towel, and there is a small recessed space in the wall for soap.

I relieve myself and step back into the room. My gaze drifts to the wardrobe, which I open to find two more prison outfits, orange overalls, and several plain white T-shirts.