Are Prisons Obsolete Book Novels & Stories

But beneath the forest ground are damp cells overpopulated with prisoners of war - innocent people just caught in the crossfire. "Why have the cells at all?" I ask, tucking my knees into my chest in a protective manner. Discarding the half-full cup on the side table, I continue. "What's the point of keeping innocent people trapped there if you don't even want them in your pack? Jeremiah...He runs those cells like a torture chamber. It's cruel."

They never did after moments like this. Back inside the van, I looked at Tristan again. Still sleeping. Still unaware of the cost of his survival. “Prepare the secondary safehouse,” I said. But even as I gave the order, I knew it wouldn’t be enough. There was one move left. One man whose signature could redraw the battlefield. The prison rose from the earth like a concrete verdict. Cold. Impenetrable. Designed to remind every visitor that power belonged to the structure, not the people within it.

"You don't get to have a normal life right now. You get to have a safe life. There's a difference." "A safe life," I repeated. "Is that what you call this? Being drugged and locked on an island with my things stolen and no way to contact anyone?" "Yes." "Well, it feels a lot like prison to me." "Good prisons keep you alive," Zade said. "Bad freedom gets you killed. Take your pick." I glared at him. Hated him. Hated how calm he was, how reasonable he sounded, how he had an answer for everything. Hated that he was probably right.

Things no one is supposed to have in here. Then my eyes land on the bookshelf. It’s packed with novels, mostly old paperbacks with cracked spines. Nothing unusual at first glance, but something nags at me. I start pulling books down, flipping through the pages. That alone is weird—who the hell lets someone keep this many books in prison? My own shelf barely has space for a single ragged Bible. I start with the books, pulling them down one by one, shaking them to see if anything falls out. Nothing. Just dusty pages and the faint smell of old ink.

Five minutes to noon. Gia opened the car door, her heart pounding as her feet touched the asphalt. "Let’s go," Matteo said, adjusting his jacket and heading toward the gleaming building. “Do all these fancy prisons actually reduce crime rates?” Gia asked Caius curiously. “Crime rates in Sweden were already low because it’s a high-income country. I don’t think luxurious prisons have much to do with it. Evil thoughts can exist anywhere, no matter how beautiful the surroundings,” Caius explained, gesturing toward the impressive prison building.

Who would mourn for him? Lost in thought, my gaze slid back to the property Reese had disappeared to. Here, too, I saw everywhere the security measures that had been put in place against the existence of the proles. Yes, the world today was one big prison in which one tried to lock oneself. And those who dared to live anyway ran the risk of dying early. But sometimes the risk paid off. Nick and the kiss came back to my mind and I felt very warm at the thought. If I had shut myself up somewhere, I would never have met him.

I spent the rest of the day sitting in front of my laptop and looking up Duran State Penitentiary. The articles I read about the prison sent chills down my spine. The prison is run by gang leaders and almost every day an inmate gets killed or injured. Being the most overcrowded prison in our country, cells meant for only 22 men are often occupied by 50 men and some of them sleep on the floor and share 1 commodity. How is Yoké supposed to stay in such a place? One article I read said that new inmates are the most at risk of getting harmed by older inmates unless they join a gang.

The crack behind Jack showed the roof of Sterling Tower, the blood archive under Nightingale, Ra's wounded solar boat, the Midgard Serpent around the harbor, Haley's livestream crawling with comments, Susan clutching receipts, Marcus aiming a gun at Vance, and the First Successful Cage standing in the open door with a crown of blood over his head. He had not entered. He was listening. The Locksmith looked at him with something almost like regret. "Caleb," he said. The First Successful Cage flinched. The blood crown flickered. Jack felt the name hit the archive like a first breath. Katherine's eyes sharpened. "You know him." "I made him possible." "You built a person into a prison." "I built

“And I realized that a lot of those prisoners shouldn't even be there.” His eyes darkened slightly. “You went through the files?” “Yes.” I held his gaze. “And I plan to release the less guilty ones. The ones who were imprisoned without real cause. The ones who were imprisoned just because they lost their wolves, like me. And we'll compensate them properly.” He frowned faintly. “And the mines?” “The mines will still work,” I said. “We’ll just introduce paid job opportunities for the miners who are still interested in working in the mines. If people want to work there, let them work there because they choose to, not because they are locked up and forced to.”

So much for all that welcoming speech to my new home. Home. It's a place, I thought I had. I haven't had one permanently for a long time. Now whenever I hear it, It sounds so foreign. My mind goes to thinking if there would be a chance to ever turn this prison into a home. I felt a painful tinged in my chest, for it would be the greatest illusion of all to think that Charles can make this a place home for me. For no matter what happens, it will always be a prison. Just like the rest of the people around me, they will never be free from this life they chose.