Chapter 7: Instincts and Shield

Jordan

In my twenty-eight years of life, I’ve never met anyone as…boring as Quincy.

He moves through life like a fucking ant on a factory line—purposeful but predictable, following the same invisible trail day after day, never pausing to wonder if there’s more beyond the hill.

Man’s like an ant with OCD and a watch—up before the bell, bed tight like he’s expecting inspection, brushes like he's got a date with the mirror or he'd got a hot chick at the board meeting who occasionally bats her eyes at him, slowly eats his repulsive meal—as he had called it–in the same damn spot (on the top bunk) He takes his shower and drowns himself into both current and old newspapers—anything to keep me from talking to him. Yes, he's been avoidant from the first day I came. Not just to me, but the rest of the inmates. Guards, as well. But hey, respect. Dude’s got his own rhythm in a place built to mess you the fuck up

But then again, there's only one of his tasks I like to join him in. The part where does push ups like those preppy soldiers determined to triumph WW2. That's the only thing keeping me from stabbing my own eyes from watching his monotonous events. To see the way his muscles flexed as sweat streamed down his pale skin. Fuckin’ looks like a chilled soda placed on the beach. His frame gives out a man who's quite delicate. Not in a weak kind of way but the type that hers never been a wittiness or a victim of toughness.

That’s how I’d describe Quincy Laurent, if anyone ever asked—which they won’t, because no one in this place gives a flying fuck about metaphors. But I notice things. Always have. You learn to survive in places like this by watching how people move.

Quincy walks like everything around him is beneath him, like he’s holding his breath all the time. His spine’s always straight, like if he just pretends hard enough, he won’t be here. Like the walls won’t touch him.

But the thing about this prison is—it doesn’t need to touch you to ruin you. It just waits.

And Quincy? He’s not gonna last long waiting.

I watched him from the yard bench, pretending to be invested in the half-ass basketball game the guards let run. He wasn’t paying attention. Rookie mistake. He was trying to get back from the commissary line with his snack bag clutched like it contained a human kidney. Maybe it did. This place, man. You never know.

And then I saw him.

Roach. The wanker who needs an exorcism, rather than a jail time.

Six-foot-two. All skin and twitch. Guy scratched like his soul had fleas and stared at people like he wanted to peel them open. I've been watching him watch Quincy for three days now. Picking his moment.

Today, apparently, was it.

Quincy passed the benches, all polished nerves and pretense, when Roach slid in behind him like a shadow.

I stood.

I didn’t even think about it. Just moved.

Because as much as Quincy pisses me off with his uptight sighs and snide looks, I knew one thing for damn sure:

He wasn’t made for this place. Always said that. Always felt that way.

And I hated watching people like Roach prove that.

I reached them just as Roach slid his arm low around Quincy's back—almost friendly, if you didn’t know better—and whispered something I couldn’t hear.

Quincy froze like someone had unplugged him. Confused at the whole situation, the rest of the prisoners were unaware of the violence that was yet to surface. It wouldn't be a fight until I commanded it.

I grabbed Roach’s wrist, yanking him off Quincy's space

“Let go,” I said, voice low.

Roach turned after holding his balance, mouth curling. “This ain’t your party, Vex.”

“Yeah? Looks like your invite got lost.”

He jerked his arm, trying to shake memy hand off. I tightened my grip on his wrist which made his brows crease, and his eyes narrow.

I threw a glance at Quincy, he took few steps back, fists clenched, snack bag crushed against his chest like a life preserver. His confused expression fueled my anger. If Roach tries to do anything funny, he might end up with me dislocating his wrist.

I took my gaze, “I said, let him go.”

Roach stared at me like he was trying to decide whether it was worth it. For one long second, the air felt like it was vibrating. Then he let go and backed up.

“Whatever,” he muttered, looking from Quincy to me with an ugly scowl. “Was just sayin’ hi. Ain't that right, Rich Boy?”

Quincy's face twisted into something I couldn't make note of. Probably loathe. Disgust.

While I was still staring at Quincy, the prick yanked his hands off my grip. I let him. Just this once. He walked off, twitching.

I turned to Quincy, whose gaze were hot me like I’d just slapped him.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I don’t need a damn babysitter,” he snapped.

So much for gratitude.

“Right,” I said. “Next time Roach tries to introduce you to the broom closet, I’ll send flowers.”

He pushed past me and kept walking.

I followed, because clearly I was an idiot who didn’t know when to leave things alone.

---

We didn’t say a word until we were back to our the cell.

Quincy dropped the ruined snack bag on his bunk like it personally offended him. Then he turned.

“What the hell was that, Jordan?”

I blinked. “You’re welcome?”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Yeah, well, Roach didn’t ask for a reason to snap your neck either. You’re lucky I stepped in.”

“I’m not lucky, I’m pissed off!”

I stared at him.

He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “I’m not helpless.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You didn’t have to. The second you step in like I’m some helpless rich idiot—”

“I stepped in,” I said slowly, deliberating on his choice of words, “because I didn’t want to watch you get hurt. Excuse me for not wanting to watch the new guy get dragged into a supply closet and used like a fucking chew toy.”

He looked stunned for half a second. Then he laughed. Harsh. Bitter.

“Is this your thing?” he asked. “You play hero for every weak inmate that stumbles into your orbit?”

“Only the ones who try to act strong and fail spectacularly.”

His eyes flared, matching my gaze just as I did his. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

He stepped forward. “No. You don’t. You think I’m soft because I didn’t grow up clawing my way through broken systems. But just because I’m not from your world doesn’t mean I don’t know how to fight.”

“Oh yeah?” I shot back. “Then why didn’t you swing on Roach?”

“Because if I swing,” he said, voice low, “I lose everything. My early release, my lawyer’s trust, my chance to fix what’s left of my name out there.”

I paused.

He was right.

Shit.

“You think I like this?” he went on. “Being a walking target? Having to rely on someone who treats prison like a goddamn playground?”

I swallowed hard. “That’s not fair.”

He stepped closer, nose almost touching mine. “You don’t get to decide what’s fair for me.”

The room pulsed. Air thick. Eyes locked.

For a second, I thought he might hit me.

Instead, he looked away.

“I’m not a project,” he muttered. “And I don’t need a shield. Not from you. Not from anyone.”

I let the silence stretch between us, not trusting my mouth to stay closed.

Then, finally, I said, “I wasn’t trying to be your shield.”

He looked back.

“I was trying not to be the guy who watched something happen when I could’ve stopped it.”

Quincy opened his mouth. And after an attempt to say a word was lost, he closed it again.

We stood there, breathing like we’d just gone ten rounds in the yard.

Finally, he sat down on his bunk, hands in his hair.

I sat across from him on mine.

Neither of us said anything else.

But something had shifted.

Not fixed.

Not forgiven.

But seen.

We aren’t friends, not even in the slightest. It's still a miracle how we manage not to tear each other's face when we glare. Fuck yeah, I hate everything he likes. Likewise him. He hated my jokes, rolled his eyes at every word I said, and looked at me like I farted patriotism. But he listened. His ears worked even when his mouth was full of insults. That was something.

But the thing that got me most?

He was soft. Not weak — soft. There’s a difference. Weak snaps. Soft absorbs. Quincy absorbed everything with that stiff-ass spine and quiet pride, and he still looked at the world like it owed him more than just pain.

So yes, I'm not to be blamed when I'm up and ready to shield him from the prison's harshness. So, whether he likes it or not, he should go fuck himself.