Chapter 5

Isla

My alarm goes off at six, and just like every other day, I’m tempted to throw my phone across the room just to make the noise stop.

The sound cuts cleanly through the quiet of my apartment, sharp and persistent, until I reach over and silence it. For a moment, I stay still, staring up at the ceiling while my body slowly wakes up.

Why can’t I live a life where I sleep whenever I want and still be able to take care of my needs?

If wishes were horses.

With a sigh, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, stretching the stiffness out of my shoulders. The floor is cool under my feet as I make my way toward the kitchen.

Urghh.

The coffee machine goes on first. I need my coffee to be able to function properly.

A few minutes later, the smell of it fills the apartment. I pour myself a mug and lean against the counter, taking a slow sip while looking around my studio. Everything is exactly where I left it the night before. Clean dishes. Folded laundry. My uniform hangs neatly on the wardrobe door.

Preparation makes mornings easier.

I move through the rest of my routine without rushing. Shower. Toothbrush. Moisturizer. Simple things that make the day feel organized before it even begins.

When I step out of the bathroom, a thin layer of steam follows me into the room. I wrap a towel around my hair and walk over to the wardrobe.

My uniform waits there.

Dark pants. A structured jacket. The badge that marks me as part of the system.

I love it.

I put it on slowly, smoothing the fabric into place. The material is stiff at first but loosens as I move. By the time I finish buttoning the jacket, I already feel like I’ve stepped into the role I wear every day.

My hair goes back into a tight ponytail. Minimal makeup, just enough to look awake. Nothing flashy. Nothing that draws attention.

My boots wait beside the door. I pull them on and lace them tightly, then stand and test my footing out of habit.

I grab my phone from the table and slide it into my pocket along with my keys. For a moment, my eyes drift toward the small framed photo on the shelf.

I don’t pick it up today. I just glance at it briefly before looking away.

I lock my apartment door behind me. The hallway outside is quiet this early. Someone down the hall is playing music softly, but otherwise the building hasn’t fully woken up yet.

Outside, the air is cool.

Morning traffic has already begun, cars moving steadily down the street as the city slowly comes alive. I take a deep breath and start walking toward my car.

Another day at Blackspire Correctional Facility.

I have a feeling today is going to be a good day. I can feel it.

“What the hell?” I blurt out. “No, sir.”

“I understand you don’t want more responsibilities,” my boss, Sergeant Aaron, says calmly, “but we’re understaffed, and unfortunately, you’re the only one who can take on one more.”

“But Aaron, I already have enough,” I protest, desperation creeping into my voice. “I’m covering the general wards too.”

“I know,” he says with a sigh. “And I’m sorry. On top of that, you’ll have to take a few extra hours. Look, we’re working on bringing in more staff. Until that happens, let’s just say he’s temporarily assigned to you.” He pauses, then adds, almost casually, “His parents are paying well.”

That sounds like hell.

But a salary increase might soften the blow, so long as I don’t collapse from exhaustion first.

“Salary increase for me?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow. “You know I don’t cheat my people. So yes, salary increase.”

I don’t bother saying anything else. I just turn and walk out, still simmering with anger.

As soon as I got to work, Rissa told me the sergeant wanted to see me in his office the moment I arrived. I barely had time to set my bag down before heading over there, only to sit through that entire conversation and hear his latest piece of bullshit.

I hate my job.

I make my way out of the office and head toward our workspace. Rissa is already there, leaning back in her chair with a file open in front of her. She looks up the second I sit down.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“New case is mine,” I tell her.

Around here, we call prisoners cases. It keeps things professional. Or at least that’s the idea.

Her eyes immediately light up.

“You’re lucky,” she says, blushing slightly. “He’s so hot.”

I stare at her in disbelief.

She laughs it off like I’m the one being dramatic.

We both turn back to our work, but I can’t stop thinking about what she just said. It happens every time a high-profile inmate comes through here, especially one with a face people like to look at. Suddenly, the crime becomes secondary.

I don’t get it.

The man is a murderer.

And yet somehow women are already gushing over him like he’s some kind of celebrity instead of a convicted killer. Give it a few weeks, and the fan mail will start flooding in. Letters, photos, love confessions, sometimes even marriage proposals.

I’ve seen it happen too many times.

People fall in love with monsters as long as the monsters look good enough.

I push the thought aside and refocus on my work. It’s still early, so I make my usual rounds, checking on the inmates assigned to me. One by one, I look in on them. Everything appears calm enough. No arguments, no complaints, nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone is doing as fine as they can in a place like this.

Satisfied, I leave the section and head toward the general ward.

At Blackspire, even the general areas fall under the VIP wing, but there’s still a clear difference between private and shared cells. The inmates who can afford private rooms get their own space, while the rest share.

The general cells aren’t messy or miserable; they’re clean, organized, and structured. The only real difference is that the inmates share the room and the toilet.

Everything else is the same.

Meals, for example, aren’t separated. Whether an inmate has a private cell or shares one in the general ward, everyone eats together in the same dining area.

The general section is already loud before I even step inside.

Voices overlap from every direction, laughter, arguments, the scrape of chairs dragging across the floor. The television mounted high on the wall is blaring loudly enough to compete with the noise, though no one seems particularly interested in what’s actually playing.

Typical.

I push the door open to the dayroom and step inside. The sound of my boots against the floor carries farther than I expect, and a few heads turn almost immediately. 

Then someone whistles.

“Well damn,” a voice calls from the upper level. “Morning just got better.”

A couple of the men laugh.

“Morning, Officer Soren,” another inmate says, leaning back lazily in his chair.

I keep walking like I didn’t hear any of it. They shouldn’t even be out here this early.

I head down the corridor toward the shared cells. Each room holds three inmates, with a single bed assigned to each of them. The beds are usually stacked in a neat line, but the inmates tend to rearrange them however they like. It’s still comfortable enough. They each have a television mounted inside the room where they can watch censored programs during their free time.

Still, boredom makes people talk.

I move through the corridor slowly, scanning faces and open cell doors out of habit. Two years here, and five years working as a prison guard, have trained my eyes to notice everything: who’s tense, who’s restless, who’s pretending not to watch me as I pass.

“You ever smile, Officer Soren?” someone asks.

“Sometimes,” I answer without looking at him.

“When?”

“When people behave.”

A few of them laugh at that.

I don’t know why I’m in charge of men and not women. 

I complete my rounds with the catcalling and all, and by the time I’m leaving, no one cares about me being in here anymore.

I save the visit to my new case for last. It will be my first time meeting him, and I already know it’s going to take more time than the rest of my rounds combined. First meetings always do. Files are one thing, but people rarely match what’s written on paper.

I just hope he’s not a jerk. I really don’t have the patience for that today.

I make my way toward the private ward for the second time this morning. The atmosphere changes the moment I step into the corridor. It’s always quieter here, almost too quiet. Sometimes I think it must be more boring staying here than in the general ward.

The inmates here hardly use their dayroom. Most of them prefer staying inside their rooms, like they’d rather be confined to their own space than deal with anyone else.

I walk down the hall until I reach room 105.

After unlocking the outer iron gate, I open the door behind it and step inside.

To my surprise, he’s still asleep.

The faint jingle of my keys and the sound of the doors opening should have been enough to wake him, but he hasn’t moved. He’s lying on his back, covering a blanket,  completely unaware of the small disturbance I’ve just made.

For a moment, I simply stand there, looking down at him, wondering if I should wake him or let him sleep a little longer.

I finally step closer, reaching out to wake him.

But before I can say a word, he jolts awake.