This Is Black Site Prison, Sweetheart
Jayce studied him for a moment, then stood and walked to the liquor cabinet. “You need a drink.”
Ethan cracked a small smile. “You offering whiskey or just tired of hearing about Cynthia?”
Jayce grabbed two glasses and poured. “Both, apparently.”
He handed Ethan a glass and raised his own. “To the ones we can’t have.”
Ethan tapped his glass against Jayce’s. “And to the friends who remind us we’re dumbasses.”
They both drank.
Ethan leaned back and let the silence stretch for a bit. Then, voice low, he asked, “Can I crash here tonight?”
Jayce nodded without hesitation. “You already know the answer to that buddy.”
Ethan exhaled. “Thanks, man.”
Bri yawned and rolled over in Jayce’s lap.
Jayce looked down at her and smirked. “At least someone here is totally at peace with no man or woman's problems.”
Ethan chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. It seems so.”
And for the first time all day, a faint trace of peace settled in the room.
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Cynthia’s POV — A Few Days Later, Maximum Black Site Prison
The air was thick with dampness. Cynthia lay flat on her back, eyes locked on the yellowing ceiling above her bunk. It was cracked, blistered, and smeared with the history of inmates who had come before her— some blood splatters dried brown in scattered corners, and the squashed remnants of mosquitoes dotted the stained walls. Her breath was shallow. The sour stench of sweat and rot mixed with mildew lingered in the cell like an eternal guest.
She didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t speak.
Her stomach gave another agonizing rumble, and her ribs twitched beneath her paper-thin skin. Days without a proper meal had done that to her. Not because food wasn’t served, but because of the beast snoring across from her.
Ashley.
Six-foot-four, built like a wrecking ball, and just as destructive. She took Cynthia’s food without hesitation, every time. Half, sometimes more. What she didn’t take, she spit in.
Cynthia turned her face slightly, just enough to glance across the room.
Ashley was sprawled on her bunk, snoring like a freight train. Her boots, muddy and stained, still on. Her lips curled up slightly, smug in her sleep, as if she'd just relished another cruel victory.
The silence was broken suddenly— three hard knocks thundered against the steel door.
Cynthia flinched.
That wasn’t the mealtime knock. It wasn’t the guard who came by with cold trays of slop and a side of insults. This was sharp. Commanding.
“INMATES, BACK AWAY FROM THE DOOR!”
The voice was female, clipped, and cold.
Ashley groaned awake, dragging herself up with a low grumble. “What the fuck now?” she muttered, rubbing her eyes with the back of her meaty hand.
Cynthia sat up too, slowly. Weak knees trembled beneath her. Her joints cracked like dry twigs. She held onto the edge of the bunk for balance, blinking at the cell door as it creaked open.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
Heavy boots stomped in. The officer was tall, severe-looking, blonde hair pinned back under a black cap, her jaw clenched tight like it was made of stone. She didn’t smile. She didn’t flinch.
Her eyes swept the cell— first at Ashley, then fixed like a rifle scope on Cynthia.
"You. Yes, you—Inmate F-2-3-5-7," the officer snapped, voice flat and metallic.
Cynthia’s brows drew together. “Me?”
The officer gave her a once-over, then jabbed a finger toward the hallway. “Let’s go. Now.”
“Wait— what’s going on? Am I in some kind of trouble?” Cynthia asked, her voice hoarse, legs wobbling as she stood. Her hand went to her stomach, instinctively bracing the ache. “Why am I being called?”
“You don’t get to ask me questions,” the officer cut in sharply, her voice like broken glass. “Move.”
Cynthia took one step forward and stumbled, grabbing the edge of her bunk to steady herself. Her breath hitched. “I— I just… what is this about? Please—”
“I won’t say it again.” The officer turned on her heels.
“Wait,” Cynthia croaked, her voice cracking under fear and hunger. “Officer… can I talk to you for a second?”
The woman paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Make it quick.”
Cynthia pointed a trembling finger across the cell. “It’s her… Ashley. She takes my food. Every single day. I haven’t had a proper meal in four days. I can barely stand, let alone think. I’m not safe in here.”
The officer raised a brow, then slowly turned her whole body back toward Cynthia. “So what?” she asked, arms folding. “You want me to hold your hand and tuck you in at night?”
“I want you to stop her!” Cynthia said, her voice raising despite the lump in her throat. “I’m begging you. I’m dying in here. I’m too weak to fight back.”
The officer clicked her tongue in irritation, then threw a brief glance at Ashley— who was now sitting up, arms crossed, grinning.
“You want me to solve your little roommate squabble? This is Black Site Prison, sweetheart. Not a kindergarten.”