Chapter 2: Booking In

Quincy

The concrete floor scraped against my palms with each slow, deliberate push-up. I would try to continue my daily routine even if I was locked up in hell.

One… two… three… I gritted my teeth and let the burn in my arms overtake the noise in my head. The jeering of other intimates in their cells. Their loud laughter. Their feet stomping on the concrete ground. The pounding beat of memory I couldn’t escape.

Twelve… thirteen…

The cell reeked of sweat and bleach, a perfect match for the stale guilt that lived in my lungs now. I bent my elbows again, chest barely brushing the cold floor.

Two days in and my skin etched with irk. I hate this place. The walls. The toilet in plain sight. The damn mattress is thinner than a bath towel. But mostly, I hate how easy it was to remember everything now that the distractions of wealth were stripped away.

Nineteen… twenty…

A knock sounded on the glass door of my penthouse office on a Wednesday, 2:32 PM. I had been sipping coffee laced with a dash of vanilla bourbon, arguing with my assistant over calendar overlaps. My father had my phone ringing all day, he wanted a final decision about the South Africa deal which I was hellbent on not signing.

I remembered tapping on DND, and going over to open the door. I was confused to see two plainclothes agents and a federal warrant.

“Quincy Laurent?"

"Yes?"

"We need you to come with us."

No cuffs. Not right away. That came after the press caught wind and they needed a good show for the cameras. That part? That part was so humiliating. Perp-walked in front of people who used to hold doors open for me. My father didn’t even come to the arraignment.

Twenty-seven…

I rolled over onto my back. My white shirt, which looked less of white and more gray with grime, saved my skin from direct contact with the filthy floor. The only part of my body I was willing to come in contact with the filthy floor were my hands which I will scrub thoroughly with the cubicle soap once I'm done. My chest heaved, forearms trembled. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I didn’t bother wiping it—not with my filthy hands.

“Conspiracy to commit fraud,” they said.

“Wire fraud, securities manipulation, insider trading.”

I hadn't even touched most of it. Sure, I’d signed off on a few sketchy memos, shaken hands at a few too many charity galas with men in dark suits and darker morals. But I never meant to cross a line. I didn’t even see the line until the indictment landed on my desk like a guillotine.

My jaw clenched as I sat up. The tips of my fingers brushed against the edge of the bed. More like a concrete slab. My back hurts.

It had all fallen apart so fast.

The media had called me the “Silk Shark”—a young hotshot CEO who rose too fast, too smooth, too rich. They made it sound like I was some criminal genius. But the truth? The truth was far worse.

I was just… naïve.

I thought having a last name that meant something would protect me.

I thought pleading innocent will justify me. I thought money bought mercy when my innocence failed.

I thought my father's silence in the courtroom meant support, not condemnation.

I stood up, hands on my hips, panting like someone who had been chased by a wild dog. My dirty vest clung to me like a second skin. I crossed to the sink, washed my hands thoroughly with the cubicle soap, and splashed water on my face, letting it drip down into the already-slick collar of my shirt.

Six months. That’s what the judge gave me—"leniency" for cooperating. Six months in Blackbridge Correctional Facility.

Only five more to go.

I met my own eyes in the cracked mirror. The face staring back looked older than it had six weeks ago. More hollow. Sharper.

“I’m not one of them,” I whispered under my breath. Like saying it would make it true.

But here, in this cell with no windows and one door that only opened for other men to chain me up and lead me around like livestock—I was just another inmate. Just another number.

I slumped back onto the bed, arms folded behind my head.

In the hallway, the gate's buzzer sounded. Footsteps echoed. The prisoners jeered loudly and laughed.

I strided to the door, peeking through the small opening. Armed guards flooded the hallway. One stopped just in front of my door.

“Step back, boy. Hands behind your fuckin’ back.” the guards blurted.

“Why should I?” my voice was raspy from lack of speech.

“I won't ask twice.”

I hesitated for a moment, then I did as commanded. Commanded.

I lowered my head, arms behind my back, I shut my eyes, a deep breath followed. Five more months and this will be over.

******

I stood on a straight line with five other men, the small space in the room was enough to make my stomach churn. The odor oozing out of these men made these even worse. The room was a shade of sterile white that seemed to glow under the flickering fluorescent lights. Everything smelled like sweat, mildew, and something faintly metallic.

This wasn’t holding anymore. This was the real thing.

The officer behind the desk barely looked up.

“Strip.”

I blinked, unsure of what I heard. “What?”

The officer met my gaze. His—angry, Mine—confused. “Clothes off, rich boy. You deaf?”

Heat rushed to my face. I glanced sideways at the other prisoners—most were already pulling off shirts, stepping out of pants without hesitation. As if this was routine. For them, maybe it was. For me, it felt like my very skin was being peeled away. I had never undressed in front of anyone if we are not counting my escapades with hot New York models and my current girlfriend.

I hesitated, then pulled the shirt over my head. Goosebumps rippled across my arms. My trousers dropped next. A beat later, my briefs joined them in a heap.

I was naked. Utterly.

And they made me wait like that, inspecting each prisoner one by one.

I crossed my arms over my chest instinctively, but the guard walking along the line barked at me.

“Hands to your sides. Eyes forward.”

The officer walked past each man, inspecting us like livestock. He stopped in front of me, pausing.

“Soft hands,” he muttered, grabbing my chin and turning my face side to side. “Pretty face too. That’ll be popular.”

I clenched his jaw. I wanted to say something, but my throat was dry and his stomach twisted too tightly to speak.

“Turn. Bend.”

I turned, humiliated, and bent at the waist as instructed. I felt exposed, violated even before the actual cavity search began. When the gloves snapped on behind me, I almost lost my composure. I gritted my teeth until my molars ached, trying to breathe through my nose and pretend this wasn’t happening.

The guard muttered something else—maybe a joke, maybe a warning—before stepping back.

“You’re clear. Get dressed.”

The “clothes” they handed me were folded neatly, but nothing about them felt clean. The beige jumpsuit sagged around my lean frame. The elastic waistband cut into my skin. The number stamped on the chest made me feel like an object, not a person.

Next came the mugshot. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I looked at the camera and didn’t recognize the man staring back. Hollow eyes. Disheveled hair. A shadow of fear behind the pride.

“Name?”

“Quincy Laurent.”

The guard smirked. “Of the Laurent hedge fund scandal?”

I didn’t answer. My silence was enough.

They scanned my fingerprints, logged me into the system, and handed him a worn pamphlet.

INMATE HANDBOOK – BLACKBRIDGE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

“Rules for a safe and orderly environment,” it read in cheap bold font.

No fighting. No fraternizing. No trading, no hoarding, no speaking back. Keep your hands to yourself. Lights out at 10 p.m.

The list felt endless. The rules felt like a noose.

Another guard, older with a clipboard and sunken eyes, leaned in.

“You follow the rules, you survive. You start trouble, you'll wish your sorry ass for a different cellblock. Are we clear, Laurent?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Drop the ‘sir.’ You’re not in court anymore. You’re an inmate.”

The door buzzed. I was escorted down the long hall lined with dirty floors, faded walls, and the constant hum of something just out of reach—despair, maybe.

I passed inmates in the hallway—some silent, some sneering, others just watching me with that slow, predatory calm that unsettled me to the bone.

Quincy Laurent.

Once a guest on financial news networks.

Now just #C143.