Chapter 1: Home Sweet Home

Quincy

The van jolted to a stop. Its brakes shrieked, putting a full stop on the page of—the last word—of freedom, turning on to a new page to captivity, chaos, all things dreadful. The shrieking sound made me flinch, my heart drummed too loudly against my ribcage. This was it.

The steel door hissed open. Heat swirled in from the outside—thick, sour air clinging to sweat and concrete. Through the grated window, I could see the tall, razor-wire fences of Blackbridge Correctional Facility stretching into the sky like a challenge to God. They stood about eighteen meters from the ground, heightening the acclivity of my captivity.

A uniformed guard barked something, but my ears were ringing too loud to catch his words. I slowly stepped out of the van, shackled at the ankles, wrists cuffed tightly in front. The chains clinked with every careful step I took down to the asphalt. My once-pristine suit—now replaced with an ill-fitting county-issued beige—hung off my frame like a joke. I was used to boardrooms, not barbed wires.

I don’t belong here. I would never belong here. But I'm here now, and I wish for one thing. For the earth to open up so I could descend into it—that is impossible, which brings me to my second wish. Bury myself under a huge rock.

The impossible thoughts of freeing myself from these chains swirled in my mind as I walked the white line toward the intake building.

My reality only kept getting clearer as I walked past the asphalt. Other inmates were already watching me from the yard, their eyes tracking me like vultures. Their laughter carried on the wind—low, amused, predatory.

I knew the type. Not personally, of course—I’d gone to private school, Ivy League. My world was penthouses, stock portfolios, and luxury cars. But I recognized hunger when I saw it. Some of these men looked like they hadn’t eaten in days. Some looked like they hadn’t felt anything human in years.

And me? I looked like prey.

Inside, the fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead as I stood in line. The guards took their time. They were younger than I'd expected. Some even looked amused. One, tall and sharp-eyed with a long scar across his cheek, leaned in when I finally stepped forward.

“Quincy Laurent, yeah? The hedge fund guy,” he said, grinning. His denticles, brown. Disappointing. “Damn, you’re famous here. Or infamous, depending who you ask.” He finished off, shrugging his shoulders. His eyes mocked me, the corner of his mouth twitched as his gaze swept over my skin. Alas, the famous or infamous guy—as he'd put it—would be placed behind bars, where he would be under predatorial scrutiny.

I gave no response. I only examined his face, thinking of ways I could smear his freckled face if I wasn't held back by the chains. Yes, my knuckles will hurt so bad, but the punch will be well deserved. And worth the pain.

“White collar or not, money makes you a target,” the guard continued as he uncuffed me and slid over a stack of clothes. “That Armani confidence? Better tuck it in with your pride.” I took my pair of designs from the counter. “Yes, I know your shitty ass got pride.” he added.

In the changing room, I stripped under a cracked mirror that warped my reflection. My skin looks paler than usual, like it hadn’t seen real light in months. Stress from work also added to the cause. I hated how my hands trembled while I put on my prison wear, how every piece of clothing I pulled on—the coarse boxers, the prison-issued T-shirt, the sagging pants—felt like it was draining something vital from me. Like my identity.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me. Thirty minutes into my arrival was enough to change who I was twenty-four hours ago.

Done dressing, the guards led me through the halls that reeked with the stench of bleach which was barely enough to mask the underlying rot. The sound of buzzing doors and the rhythmic clank of metal echoed down the sterile corridors. My new world was made of cinder blocks, steel bars, and the silent language of survival.

Finally, they reached Cellblock C.

A roar of voices greeted us, me—some loud, some whispering, some laced with laughter that made my stomach tighten. I was accompanied by the guards, struggling to appear unfazed, even though my throat was dry and my eyes darted at every sudden sound. The few prisoners I saw clung their cell doors, looking through the small opening, jeering all sorts of things to the guards. My eyes twitched on hearing their loud, distorted noise. My hands were cuffed, resisting me from holding them up to my ears

My cellC-29 was narrow, barely wide enough for two bunks. A toilet stood awkwardly in the corner, no privacy curtain, just a small window barred by thick metal. The top bunk was empty. The bottom had a thin mattress and a gray blanket, neatly folded. My cellmate hadn’t arrived yet. I made a silent prayer, for the two months I will be here before my second trial, I wouldn't share this shithole with anyone.

“Home sweet home,” the guard muttered behind me. He uncuffed me, pushed me into my suit, and shut the door behind me. “Tomorrow, you'll get booked in. Nighty night, stock boy.”

With that, he stormed off.

I stood in the middle of the cell, frozen.

This wasn’t a headline. This wasn’t a temporary embarrassment, or some slap-on-the-wrist punishment from the court. This was real. I was locked in. Powerless. Alone.

I moved to the bunk and sat on the edge, gripping the mattress like it might anchor me.

I could still hear the judge’s voice echoing in my memory: “...due to the severity of the fraud and its impact on hundreds of victims…”

I’d thought money would fix everything. I had relied on a good lawyer after foreseeing that my innocence wouldn't speak for me. Still, nothing. My lawyer lacked solid evidence and statements to prove my innocence. So, here I was—just another number in a broken system.