Chapter 12: Quiet Night

Quincy

The night didn’t come softly.

After the cell’s hallway buzzed lively with hungry inmates hitting their metal doors, jeering and heckling the guards for the choice of meal they'd got for them after paying for some nice treats from the commissary.

The silence of the night dropped over Blackbridge like a curtain cut from concrete—thick, cold, and final. Lights out happened hours ago, but neither of us slept. I could tell by the way Jordan’s breath never settled, never fell into the slow rhythm like it usually did when he passed out like a rock.

From the top bunk, I could hear everything.

The occasional shuffle of his legs. The faint creak of his mattress. The tension that pulsed beneath us, like a hum only I could hear.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that felt comfortable.

It was the kind that felt aware.

And I knew—I knew—he was thinking.

Because I was too.

My thoughts flickered like faulty neon signs. About Dad. About Stacy. About the life I’d paused—the amount of money I had lost just because I was restrained in this place. And, strangely, about him.

About Jordan.

Since the day he got out of the Underground Cell, he had been acting differently. Unlike the usual Jordan that I had always known, he hadn't said much since two days after his release. No jokes, just a few grunts. He still walked like his body owed him pain. Still leaned against the wall like it was the only thing holding him together. He looks…draining. Of course, the tales of that cell acting as a black hole that could suck you of everything you've been, and stand is real.

Yes.

I can see it in his stance.

I can see it in his eyes.

They're now empty.

They're dark. They've always been, but this time around, it's morphed into iciness.

He's broken.

Not broken—just… quieter.

And that scared me more.

I rolled over, head hanging slightly off the edge of my bunk so I could see him in the low red glow of the night light. He was lying flat on his back, one arm over his forehead, eyes open.

“Hey,” my voice unintentionally came out as a whisper.

No answer.

“I know you're awake.” I said, taking a deep breath.

He huffed softly. “You wanna read me a bedtime story, Pretty Boy?”

I smirked.

‘Pretty Boy’ the first time since the Ice cell he'd called me that—a sign of an improvement.

“Not unless you want something tragic and unresolved.”

“It wouldn’t be a coincidence now right?” he muttered, turning his head toward the wall. “Bring it on.”

Another beat of silence passed between us, longer than the rest. Then, without warning, he asked:

“Have you ever slept in a car?” he brings his focus back to me.

It wasn’t what I expected.

“Uh… yeah,” I said slowly. “Once. With my dad. We got locked out of the house after a late movie. His car was the only option left at that moment. We had to sleep in the driveway.”

Jordan gave a dry chuckle. “Classy.”

“What about you?”

He paused. Then:

“My sister and I used to sleep in our mom's old Corolla when I was twelve. She'd park behind a fuckin’ gas station in Fort Wayne. She'd crack the windows, and when I ask why she did that. She'll brush it off with a smile. And if I push further on my question, she'll shut me up with “It's for camping, Jordan. Leave me the fuck alone.” She'd add to it saying: “think of it as a game, we are being adventurous.” He chuckled again, but it didn’t sound funny. “That whole goddamn time, I had no clue we were homeless. She never made it obvious, or maybe I was just some dumbass kid to realize it.”

The air shifted.

He’d never talked about his sister again since the night I woke up and cut that vulnerable moment with him and his sister. Now it was just floating between us—this fragile, stained little memory neither of us knew what to do with.

“You still talk to her?” I asked.

“Nahh, not since that call.”

Right.

That call.

The one where I heard him cry. Almost.

The one that still echoed in the corners of this cell when I closed my eyes.

I lowered my head again. “She’ll come around. I promise.”

“She won’t, man. She might manage to drag herself to come pick up my corpse when I die. But that bitch doesn't want to have anything to do with her psycho brother.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His voice was flat, brittle. “Because she’s always the first to see the worst of me before anyone else does. And once someone sees that… it's impossible for them to unsee it.”

I swallowed hard. That wasn’t just about her. That was about me.

“I’ve seen it too,” I said quietly.

He didn’t respond.

But his breath caught—just for a second.

“You shouldn't have come pleaded for me,” he said finally.

“What do you mean?” I raised a brow.

I can feel his gaze piercing my face. His fingers move to graze his chin.

“You knew what I'm talking about.”

Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, I was waiting to hear him talk about it. But what should I say was my reason without sounding like a screwed bigol’ baby?

“I pleaded for your release because I could.” I said, shifting my gaze to his broad chest. More broad than mine.

“Why?”

“I don’t know why,” I admitted.

But I did.

I knew exactly why.

Because even with all the noise he brought, the chaos he stirred, the damage he dealt—Jordan Vex made me feel something in a place that worked overtime to numb me.

And right now, that something was crawling up my throat, aching to be said.

So I whispered:

“Sometimes I think we’re not that different.”

He laughed under his breath. “You? Nah. You’re Ivy League problems in a human shell.”

“Yeah, well,” I sighed, “shells crack.”

Another pause.

Then Jordan shifted, sitting up slowly, spine curved like the weight of his past was still pressing down on him.

His voice sounded raw.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I almost burned my house down?”

What's up with him and letting down his steel amor by lights out?

“Definitely not.”

“I was eight. Along at home…as usual. I had a thought in Monday that I carried out that day. I left my bedroom to kitchen. Lit a match under the kitchen sink just to see if water could catch fire. It didn’t. But the rag beside it sure as hell did. Elle came back and met the mess, she beat my ass harder than my mom ever could. Said she didn’t care about the house—just about the fact that I didn’t think to tell her first.”

I blinked. “So… lesson learned?”

“Yeah. Don’t play with fire.” He leaned back on his hands. “But I still do. Every day. I love the hurt. I love the way it burns. With the drugs, the fight, and all the street shit. Man, I live for it.”

That landed heavier than I thought it would.

Maybe because I saw it now. Clearer than ever.

Jordan wasn’t dangerous because he wanted to be.

He was dangerous because he didn’t know how not to be.

And that was the difference.

Be definitely wasn't a monster—without scales and horns—as I'd thought he was a month ago. He's just a man with a box of matches and no idea how to live in the dark.

“Try sleeping,” I said finally, voice quiet. I'm unsure of what to say next. He's anything but a Dumbfuck—as he'll call himself. “You’re making the shadows nervous.”

He scoffed. “Pretty Boy’s got jokes.”

“I’m serious. Before I come down there and lull you to sleep with Shakespeare.”

“Please don’t,” he muttered, dragging the blanket over his legs. “I’d rather hear Roach scream again.”

It's been a while since we joke. I want to hold on to times like this, but it is impossible with someone like Jordan. One time, he's cool. The next, an annoying bug.

I let that silence settle over us again—but it wasn’t the same.

It was fuller now.

A little warmer.

A little less alone.

Just as I started drifting off, I heard him again. Softer this time.

“Hey, Laurent?”

“Hm?”

“That story you’re reading…” His voice slowed, eyes half-lidded. “Does it have a happy ending?”

I looked up at the ceiling, at the cracks that split the plaster like veins.

And I lied.

I had gone from reading American politics to reading romance. Of all genres, romance.

I just want to be reminded of what it feels like to be loved. To be wanted. And I'm not saying it to sound like a ‘Bitch’—as Jordan will call it. But then, no man was made to be an island or live solemnly on an island.

Secondly, it pulls me out of reality and I'm just hanging on the edge of fiction and harsh reality flavored with chaotic people.

“Yeah. It does.”

Because sometimes, you don’t read stories for the truth.

Sometimes, you read them for the hope that it might be different this time.

Even in prison.

Even here.

Even for us.