Chapter 6

Percy

Sleep in this place is strange.

It isn’t the kind of sleep that eases you into rest with gentle arms and a quiet lull; it doesn’t cradle you and let your body dissolve into calm oblivion. Instead, it hovers over your mind lightly, almost mockingly, like a temporary visitor that could vanish at any second, leaving you exposed and alert. Even when the room is silent, even when nothing stirs beyond the faint hum of the fluorescent lights, some fragment of my brain refuses to surrender. It clings to awareness, keeps me half on guard.

Maybe that’s why I wake up so suddenly.

One moment, I’m in that hazy, comforting darkness of dreams. The next, my eyes snap open, and my body reacts before I can even register what yanked me out of sleep. There’s a brief, disorienting second when nothing feels anchored, the ceiling above me is foreign, the light too bright, the air too sharp and cold, cutting against my skin in a way that shouldn’t be normal. Then reality nudges back into place.

I’m in prison. Ugh.

I lie there for a long moment, still, staring at the ceiling as the last remnants of sleep flicker out of my mind. My muscles are taut in that automatic, habitual way that comes from years of learning to wake quickly, to always be ready. I’m not panicking. I’m not confused. I’m just… awake.

But something feels different in the room.

I shift my gaze slightly and catch a movement beside my bed. A female guard stands there. Not yesterday’s familiar presence, the one I’d begun to feel some small, strange camaraderie with, but someone new. I glance at her once, then look away. Yesterday, it had been a man. A man I had connected with, even minimally. That connection feels like it evaporated overnight, irrelevant now.

I don’t care.

Sleep is one of the few things left in this place that’s entirely mine. And apparently, even that is negotiable. I barely slept last night, and the irritation smolders like a live coal in my chest. Someone dared to pull me out of the fragile peace I managed to cling to.

The guard doesn’t move when I look away. She stays perfectly still, like a statue planted beside the bed, every movement calibrated, every posture deliberate. Her boots rest firmly on the floor, the leather polished and authoritative. Her spine is rigid, held upright as though the uniform itself is sculpting her into obedience. From the faint jingle of keys at her belt to the way she exudes control without a single word, she radiates a confidence honed by repetition.

Finally, she speaks.

“Percy Blackwell.”

The sound of my own name in this room feels strange, unfamiliar. It cuts across the silence and settles into the corners of the cell like something far heavier than it should be, pressing down just enough to make me aware of my own weight in the space. I don’t answer. There’s no reason to.

“I’m Officer Isla Soren,” she continues, her voice calm, precise, carrying the authority of someone who has delivered this line countless times. “I’m the correctional officer assigned to your case.”

“Assigned to my case.”

The words loop in my head like an uncomfortable echo. File. Responsibility. Problem. That’s what I am now, a ledger entry, someone else’s task to manage. And yet, I remain silent, keeping my eyes on the wall across the room, letting the quiet stretch like a taut wire between us. If she expects conversation, or acknowledgment, or any sign that I’m pliable, she will be sorely disappointed.

She begins again, her voice steady and even, the kind of measured tone people use when they’ve recited the same instructions countless times. Almost bored. She lists the items I’m allowed to request for the room: extra towels, additional bedding, writing materials, approved books, hygiene products, and recreational items permitted by facility rules. She recites them effortlessly, clearly not rushing, not muttering them through teeth clenched in impatience. There’s a thoroughness to her delivery that suggests pride, or at least a professional commitment.

When she finishes, she adds one final note. Breakfast will be served soon, and I will have to join the others in the dining hall. Her tone carries no judgment, no irritation, only the procedure itself, perfectly neutral.

The room falls silent again. I remain where I am, letting the quiet wrap around me. If she hopes for gratitude or conversation, it will not come from me. I sense her gaze resting on me, subtle but insistent, until she shifts slightly, acknowledging my presence in a way that signals patience thinning.

“Mr. Blackwell,” she says again, her voice firmer, still calm but with a hint of insistence threading through it.

“Can’t a guy get some sleep around here?” I mutter from my bed, voice thick with morning lethargy and irritation, not bothering to sit up.

“You had all night to do that,” she replies evenly.

“What’s the point of waking up?” I ask again, the words rough around the edges.

Her explanation comes precisely, as if patience were woven into her very being: routines exist even in a locked room, to preserve sanity. Miss breakfast, and you wait until the next meal. No exceptions, no indulgences.

“Way to be in VIP then,” I grumble.

She doesn’t respond, simply continues as though my remark barely grazes her consciousness.

“Mr. Blackwell.” There’s a slight edge now, irritation barely contained beneath the surface of her calm.

Slowly, deliberately, I sit up. The blanket slides down my chest as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I do it with intention, knowing her eyes are still on me. And for the first time since waking, I really look at her.

She’s standing not far from my bed, posture immaculate, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that keeps every stray strand from softening the sharp angles of her face. Her uniform is structured and formal. She’s younger than I expected. Mid-twenties, maybe. Her expression is controlled, but her eyes are alert, sharp, measuring, analyzing. Those eyes study me as though she’s attempting to chart the person I might become within these walls. Interesting.

I rise fully from the bed, stretching my shoulders casually, as if this were a hotel room rather than a cell. Her gaze tracks every movement, taking a careful step back, still assessing, still judging. She wants to know if I will be compliant, or chaotic, or merely difficult, I’m sure.

That answer depends entirely on my mood. For now, I move deliberately across the room, close enough to be inconvenient, not close enough to be threatening.

“You always this eager in the mornings, Officer?” I ask lazily, a smirk hiding in my tone.

Her eyes tighten, the thin veneer of patience fraying just slightly. Enough for me to notice. Disciplined, yes, but not unshakeable.

“Do you need anything for your room?” she repeats, flat and direct.

I glance around the cell, taking in the bed, desk, and wardrobe. Clean. Organized. Stark in its efficiency. I shrug faintly.

“Maybe a better mattress,” I offer.

Her reaction is precisely what I expect, or rather, what I don’t expect: calm, neutral, unfazed. “This is a correctional facility, not a hotel room.”

Right. I nod slowly, easing back onto the bed. “Forgot,” I mutter.

For the briefest moment, I detect a subtle shift behind her composed expression. Not anger exactly, but annoyance, a tiny crack in the armor. She decides the conversation is over. Without another word, she moves toward the door, unlocking it efficiently, stepping into the hallway with practiced precision. The metallic click of the door closing seals the silence again.

I linger, staring at the closed door, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet. A laugh escapes me before I realize it. She didn’t finish whatever checklist she had. No inspections. No follow-up questions. Just a quiet exit, irritation hidden beneath the surface. Interesting.

Even someone as disciplined and professional as her can be nudged off balance. I rub the back of my neck, letting the silence wash over me in a new way, less empty, less oppressive.

I glance at the door once more. She will return. It’s her duty. And if I’m going to be stuck in this place… I might as well start acting like an inmate.