Chapter 5: Collision Course

Quincy

In fourty-eight hours, the size of this cell felt like it had shrunk by half its original dimensions—thanks to the large man lying beneath me.

I sat on the edge of the top bunk, trying to read a book I found really intriguing---anerican politics, but the crinkling sound of Jordan’s chewing gum echoed loudly, shifted my focus to him. Even though we were far apart I could still smell the sharp tang of his breath every time he exhaled—a mix of nicotine and something metallic.

Yes, nicotine. I’m sure the jackass even mixes it into his shampoo or whatever the hell he uses to wash that inked-up body of his.

“Could you please stop the popping? I’m trying to focus here,” I snapped, my last thread of tolerance finally snapping. I set my book down and tightened my jaw.

I’m honestly pained by how much everything he does annoys me. Maybe it’s because, growing up with onlychildsyndrome, my company was always limited. Now, I’ve got to adjust to this.

I heard Jordan scoff quietly from the bottom bunk. I could already imagine him grinning stupidly—that same smug smile he’s been flashing for the past 48 hours since he arrived. Then came a loud pop. Then another. Flicking his gum against the wall.

“Relax, suit. It’s just gum.”

I heard him spit the gum out. It landed with a slap and stuck to the wall across from us.

My lip curled as I fought back the annoyance threatening to rise.

“Sticking gum on the wall? You know what they say about hygiene in my space, right?”

“‘My’ space? You feel like you own this cell, don’t you, genius?”

That’s it.

With a smooth jump from the top bunk, I landed on my feet—one hand gripping the middle page of Leviathan by Hobbes, the other clenched into a fist.

“Built like a tank but runs on toddler logic. For someone who’s been in and out of prison, you’d think you’d have at least a basic culture of cleanliness.”

Jordan’s eyes darkened—amused, but also warning. I was surprised he didn’t bite back more viciously (not that I cared). Instead, he kept his voice casual.

“Do you wash your hands after touching your own fucked-up mind?”

I blinked, heat crawling up my neck.

What the hell does that even mean?

“I’m just saying—this place is already filthy, and you’re doing everything you can to make it worse.”

“Come on, man,” Jordan said, sitting up. “Don’t tell me you brought your white-collar clean freak habits into prison. This ain’t a boardroom. This is reality, fella.”

I slammed the book shut.

“Maybe if you didn’t leave your socks all over the floor—”

“Those socks are trophies,” Jordan shot back, his eyes locked on me. “Each one’s a battle scar.”

My jaw tightened.

“You leave trash everywhere. Your bed’s a mess. And don’t get me started on manners—”

“You like it?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I detest it.”

Calm the nerves, Quincy.

Jordan watched me for a second or two, face blank. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was waiting for me to gather my shit just so he could knock it all over again with his vexatious words.

“Like you’re some punky-ass angel,” he muttered. “You breathe too loud. You cling to the top bunk like you’re the king of this fucked-up dump.”

“I just want some order. Some normalcy. Not you... watching me like a creep.”

Jordan scoffed and stood, towering over me—completely unbothered.

“Normalcy doesn’t exist here. You’ll learn that quickly.”

It was evening—I could tell by the dim light seeping into the cell. But that didn’t stop me from noticing the iciness in his eyes. They would terrify a weaker man. Not me.

“You flaunt your sassy ass around my space, it would take a blind man not to notice.”

He was so close, his voice practically vibrated between us.

I looked him dead in the eyes, refusing to let his challenging stare rattle me.

“Maybe I don’t want to learn that.”

Jordan stepped even closer, our faces inches apart.

“Then maybe you’re in the wrong place.”

A crackling silence followed—thick, electric. Neither of us blinked.

Then Jordan smirked, softening the edge of tension just enough to twist the knife.

“But hey, don’t think of me as the Big Bad Wolf. You should keep your hygiene, and I’ll keep the chaos. That will make us even, Pretty Boy.”

"Stop calling me that."

"Okay, Pretty Boy."

I shook my head, exasperated.

“You’re impossible.” I walked past him, resuming my position as I'd been earlier on. My top bunk—which was supposed to be his. I opened my book again, flipping through the pages absentmindedly.

“And you’re boring as hell,” Jordan said, grinning wider. “This is going to be fun.” he said, retired to his bed as well.

I wanted to argue, to push back harder—but even as I clutched my book tighter, something inside me stirred.

Intrigue.

Despite all my instincts telling me otherwise.

“Earlier on,” Jordan said after a pause, “you said I’m built like a tank—”

“But run on toddler logic. Yes, I did. And I’m not wrong,” I replied, eyes on the book, tone as light as I could manage.

Jordan’s the type who feeds off the reactions he provokes. I wasn’t going to give him that. At least, I would try not to.

“You should count yourself lucky that you’re a pretty face with a blabbermouth. If you had a gargoyle face like some of these inmates, I’d have knocked you out cold at least three times.”

Douche.

I set the book on my thighs, never having read past the third line of chapter one, and turned to my cellmate—who was now casually issuing death threats.

“How did you even get that gum in here, anyway? Unless it’s something new, guards don’t bring in snacks like that.”

Curiosity had gotten the better of me. Somehow, I was now having a halfway decent conversation with Jordan. I figured I might as well keep going.

“I have my ways, Pretty Boy.”

He shifted on the bunk, and the entire atmosphere of the room seemed to adjust to his presence.

“I’m just asking how you got gum into the cell. I’m not trying to learn how to build a nuclear bomb.”

You Ink Man.

“Still. Sounds like that kind of question in this kind of environment. Ask me for the gum next time—not how I got it.”

“How do—”

“Shut it, Pretty Face. I wanna take a fucking nap. Thought you liked silence.”

His voice faded out with those last words, as he drifted off just like that.

That’s all he does—panther energy, sleeping like a panda.

He’s got people on the outside sending him whatever he needs.

Money for premium meals. Clothes. Supplies.

I had none of that.

Two days in, and the guy wasn’t even remotely affected by the shift in environment.

Not even a flinch.

And now, I’m left wondering…

How long?

How tough did it have to be for someone to survive in this hellhole long enough to adapt to its cruelty?

“You keep your hygiene, and I’ll keep the chaos.”

His words echoed through my head.

Maybe... chaos was the only thing keeping him sane.