All Chapters of Sinful Affairs: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Marshall’s POV I’d gotten used to silence. After three weeks alone in a cold gray cell, you stop hearing the noise outside the yelling, the footsteps, the metal clanging. Everything fades until all that’s left is the sound of your own breathing. I’d started to like it that way. No one to talk to, no one to look at, no one to remind me of what I’d lost. So when the guard banged on my door that morning and said, “You’re getting a cellmate,” my stomach dropped. I didn’t say anything. Just sat on the edge of the lower bunk and stared at the floor. My mattress was thin and uneven. I could trace every spring under it with my fingers. I’d learned to do that when I couldn’t sleep, to count them like a weird kind of prayer. The cell door clicked open. The sound of keys and boots echoed off the walls. I didn’t look up right away, but when I did, I froze. The man standing there wasn’t some rough-faced stranger or gang member like I’d imagined. He was clean-shaven. Tall, maybe a few inches

Marshall’s POV Prison life runs on rules, not the ones written on paper, but the kind everyone learns by surviving. Don’t stare too long. Don’t talk too much. Don’t ask what someone did to end up here. Keep to yourself, eat fast, and never make enemies over small things like food or space. When I lived alone in my cell, those rules were easy. But once Francesco moved in, everything changed. Space became something you could feel. Every move had to be careful, folding clothes, walking around the small table, and even breathing sometimes. The cell wasn’t big enough for two people who didn’t know each other. The day started the same way it always did: the bell, the door clanging open, breakfast line, work shifts, dinner, lights out. But living that routine with another person made time move differently. We learned to take turns at the sink. One would wash while the other made the bed or folded laundry. We didn’t talk much at first, but the silence between us started to feel less aw

Marshall’s POV Prison had its own kind of motion. Days were loud, full of orders and footsteps and metal clanging. But nights were different. Nights were too quiet, and somehow, that silence could be louder than all the noise in the world. I had gotten used to it during my weeks alone. Solitude had been cruel, but familiar. Then Francesco came, and everything shifted. Now, the silence carried weight. Every sound, a sigh, a rustle, a breath, reminded me I wasn’t alone anymore. That week, things started changing around the block. And in the prison, most of the other inmates either avoided him or stared too long when he passed by. Some called him “the model.” Others used less kind names. I tried not to pay attention. But in a place like this, you couldn’t stay invisible forever. One afternoon, after lunch, I was walking back to our cell with my tray when someone called out. “Hey, quiet boy,” a rough voice said. “You’re Tailor’s new pet, huh?” I froze. The man was huge, tall,

Marshall’s POV That week, the cold didn’t leave. The mornings started with fog so thick it crawled into the cells, and the nights felt endless, heavy, gray, and colder than before. Everyone was miserable. Even the guards complained, rubbing their hands and cursing under their breath. We’d been lucky the last few nights. The small heater in the hall still worked, humming faintly through the pipes. It wasn’t much, but it kept the air from freezing solid. Then, one night, it stopped. The whole block went dark. No lights. No sound. Just a long, low click, and silence. Someone down the corridor shouted, “Power’s out again!” The guards didn’t bother explaining. They never did. It was just another thing to survive. The cold came fast. Within minutes, it felt like the air had teeth again. The metal bars, the floor, even the beds, everything froze to the touch. I wrapped myself in my blanket, but it didn’t help. The fabric was too thin, my body too tired to fight it. My teeth start

Marshall’s POV The day started badly and only got worse. Lockdown hit right after breakfast. Someone from Block C tried to stab a guard. We weren’t allowed out of our cells for hours. The noise of shouting, metal doors slamming, and boots running up and down the corridor made it feel like the whole prison was shaking. Francesco sat on his bunk, quiet as always, his head leaning against the wall. I could tell he was trying to stay calm, but his jaw was tight. I could see the muscle moving just under the skin. I paced. I always did when I was nervous. “You think someone died?” I asked. He didn’t look at me. “Probably.” That word, said so simply, made my stomach twist. People died here all the time. It shouldn’t have surprised me. But it still did. Then we heard it. The guard shouted down the hallway: “Santoro’s gone. OD’d in the showers.” The sound of metal cups hitting the floor echoed from the other cells. A few men swore under their breath. Some laughed bitterly. Santoro, a