Ryena's Point of View
Just when I thought this place couldn't get any more twisted, they handed us microphones.
Literally.
Another announcement blared over the intercom as we finished our forced "integration" activity. We were barely recovering from the circus of mingling with the male prisoners, and now the guards were handing out glossy sheets and barking orders with a weird sense of cheerful urgency.
I need therapy after this.
∆ "All inmates are to group themselves into fours. A mandatory performance event is to follow. Display your most entertaining talent. Best group wins access to the 'incentive locker'—plus dessert privileges for a week. All participants must perform. No exceptions."
A guard actually smiled while reading that.
If they were trying to make us forget the hell we were stuck in, this was the most disturbing way to do it.
"So now it's a talent show?" I scoffed, snatching a paper from a guard's hand. "What's next, karaoke night with live electrocution?"
"Dessert privileges," Abby muttered, eyeing the sheet. "I'd kill for a cookie."
"Calm down Doom,They probably laced the dessert with truth serum," Hiliana said, narrowing her eyes.
"Wouldn't be the first time," I muttered.
Tarn stood stiffly beside us, arms crossed, not even pretending to care.
"Guess you're stuck with us," I said, glancing up at him.
"I don't sing."
"Good. You can dance."
"I don't dance either."
"Then you'll beatbox."
He blinked once, very slowly, as if considering whether throwing himself at the electric fence might be easier.
"Fine," he said finally, voice flat. "But if I die of second-hand embarrassment, I'm taking you all with me."
We were corralled into a makeshift stage area in the same corridor. The room was lit like a fever dream—flashing red and blue lights, loud static-filled speakers, and a wobbly plywood stage barely taller than a lunch tray.
Other inmates had started forming their groups—awkward combinations of hardened criminals, twitchy loners, and clumsy try-hards.
Someone tried juggling. Another group was already prepping a dramatic reading of Romeo and Juliet. Poor bastards.
"Alright," I said, clapping my hands together and turning to Abby and Hiliana. "We're not just going to perform. We're going to torch this place down—lyrically."
Abby grinned. "Oh no. You're going to rap, aren't you?"
"Damn right I am." I said with a grin
Hiliana cracked her knuckles. "I'll do backups."
"I'll drop the beat," Abby said.
All eyes turned to Tarn.
He looked like he wanted to dig a hole and disappear into it.
"...I'll stand there and look threatening," he offered.
"That works." I shrugged
They called our group last, because people save the best for last.
We stepped up onto the shaky stage. There was a murmur from the crowd—mixed amusement and disbelief. A female group? A rap performance? In prison?
We were asking for it.
And that's exactly what I wanted.
I grabbed the mic, letting it rest loose in my hand like it was made for me.
I let my voice pour out, slow and sharp.
🎤
"Name's Ryena, I got bars like the guards got whips,
Spittin' truth so raw, even the walls got hips.
You can lock the gates, but my mind still roams,
I'll burn your blueprints down like I built this home.
🎤
A cheer rose. Laughter. A few inmates actually leaned forward.
Hiliana stepped up behind me, beat in her throat like a war drum.
🎤
"This cell ain't a cage, it's a classroom of pain,
I learned to play the game, now I'm breaking the chain.
Used to run on scraps, now I feast on fear,
Say my name wrong and I'll slice your ear."
🎤
Abby took the mic next, voice smooth like silk with a hidden dagger.
🎤
"Abby in the back, I don't play the fool,
You talk real tough 'til I rewrite the rule.
Call me quiet, cute, but I kill with a line—
My smile's sugar, but my brain's landmine."
🎤
We took turns, the beat from the speaker box thumping like it owed us rent.
I turned to the crowd, eyes blazing.
🎤
"You judge with your cuffs, you beat with your fists,
But I wear scars like saints wear myths.
You think we're broken? You should look in the mirror.
The real freaks wear masks, the monsters wear visors."
🎤
The room got quiet.
Even the guards were staring now.
Tarn hadn't moved an inch. But I caught the slightest twitch of his jaw.
Was that... pride?
Or a mild stroke?
Hiliana tossed the mic in her hand and added one last line.
🎤
"They call it talent, but this here's our riot,
Words our weapons, silence the diet.
We scream through rhythm, not just for dessert—
But to remind you all: we still know how to hurt."
🎤
Abby ended it with a clean mic drop.
The crowd exploded.
Some inmates were cheering. Others whistled. A few guards murmured to each other behind visors.
We stepped down like queens descending from a ruined throne. My pulse was wild. My blood was singing. And for a moment, it wasn't just a prison.
It was our stage.
Tarn walked a few paces behind us, shaking his head slightly.
"That was… reckless."
"That was cathartic," I corrected, still breathless.
"You just publicly mocked half the prison and the entire administration."
"Which is why it was perfect," Abby said, giving him a wink.
Hiliana bumped her shoulder against mine. "You should rap more often."
I raised an eyebrow. "Thinking of becoming my manager?"
"No, but I'd start a fan club."
Tarn exhaled. "If we get electro-shocked in our sleep tonight, I'm blaming you."
"Worth it."
As the event ended, we didn't get dessert.
We didn't win.
Another group did—a guard-favorite crew who sang a sanitized love song about hope and reform.
But that didn't matter.
Because the guards were watching us now. Whispering. Holding clipboards. Tightening patrol routes.
We hadn't just performed.
We'd provoke.
And deep in my gut, I knew the price would come later.
But for now?
We walked out heads high, laughter on our tongues, and fire under our feet.
And for once, in this godforsaken hellhole—
We felt alive.