CAGED WOLF' inmate 0-7-7-4-1 (r18) のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

POV: TuckerThe trick to surviving Valhalla as a fae wasn't lying. It was telling the truth so carefully nobody noticed the edge on it.Tucker learned that lesson the way fae learned everything worth knowing: get burned first, work out the rule after. Fae couldn't lie. The binding ran deeper than choice, baked into the blood the same way a vampire couldn't cross a threshold uninvited. Say something false out loud and the chest seized up, throat closing around the words before they could land clean. A stumble. A stammer. A tell so obvious any guard with half a brain could catch it mid-sentence.Which was exactly why the guards liked him so much."Delano." Officer Reyes dropped into the interrogation room chair, folder tucked under one arm, wearing the slump of a man who'd rather be pulling a shift anywhere else in the building. "New fish. Word is he's been asking around about the Deep End."Tucker sat across the table, wrists cuffed to the loop welded into its surface, the metal biting

POV: GriffSix years, and Marcus Griffin's body still hadn't learned to stop grieving what the suppressants had cut out of him. The hollow sat behind his ribs like a fist that never unclenched, an ache that had nothing to do with the mattress or the concrete slab underneath it. It went deeper than muscle. A silence lived where something used to hum, low and constant, a wire that once ran from him to every wolf in his pack no matter how far they'd scattered across the state. The suppressants hadn't just muzzled the shift. They'd cut the wire clean, and six years hadn't taught his hands to stop twitching toward something that wasn't there anymore.He'd stopped calling it pain, mostly, because pain had an edge, a start and a stop. This ran flatter than that, a low-grade static that never lifted. Food tasted like wet cardboard. Colors came through muted, like somebody had thrown a gray film over the whole world and never bothered peeling it back off. Worst was the quiet where the pack bon

POV: RickiIn Valhalla, money was a rumor. The real currency was whatever you could hold in your hand and somebody else wanted bad enough to bend for.Ricki learned the true shape of the economy on his second commissary day, standing near the back of a line that crawled slower than the one before it. Transactions played out in the open, casual as breathing, the way the whole building breathed. Not an exception to the rules. The only rule that mattered.Odile's dosing window sat at the far end of the room, and the line feeding into it told its own story before anyone opened their mouth. A witch near the front had both hands tucked into her sleeves, and they shook hard enough that the fabric moved with them. The woman behind her leaned in, murmured something about the ward-work going sloppy again this week, symbols smudged, lines drawn crooked by hands that couldn't hold steady anymore. The witch didn't answer. Didn't need to. Sloppy ward-work meant a write-up. A write-up meant docked c

POV: RickiThe worst part of visitation wasn't the glass between them. It was pretending the glass was the only thing.The visitation room ran narrow and fluorescent, a row of booths divided by scratched plexiglass thick enough to distort faces slightly if you looked from the wrong angle, a phone receiver bolted to a cord too short to let anyone lean back comfortably. A guard stood at the far end, arms crossed, watching the room like a security monitor - present but disengaged. Ricki understood, sitting down across from the glass, that whatever happened in the next thirty minutes would happen with an audience, timed, observed, performed as much as felt.Three weeks now since the postponement. Two since Doc had started writing the fever down as a running line item instead of a one-off anomaly. Ricki hadn't done the math on purpose, it had just accumulated the way everything accumulated in here, one flat, identical day pressed against the next until the only way to mark time at all was

POV: RickiLeon Church's idea of dinner was two commissary ramen packets, a blood-supplement shake he never touched, and a conversation that cut like a scalpel dragged slow across skin.The Undercroft looked different at this hour. Lamplight replaced the fluorescent glare, throwing everything into amber and shadow, and someone had set the low table with a precision that felt ceremonial given how little sat on it. Ricki lowered himself across from Leon with the same unease a stray dog might feel slinking into a den that wasn't his, every nerve ending screaming *trespasser* into territory never built with him in mind. He smelled his own fear-sweat under the ramen steam, sharp and human and cheap, and beneath that, something else entirely: the cool, still scent that trailed Leon everywhere, old stone and old blood and something that had learned, a long time ago, to hold itself permanently in check."Eat," Leon ordered, tone flat as a slammed cell door, sliding one of the ramen packets ac