Ryena's Point of View
It started subtly. Like the way shadows stretch during sunset, soft and unnoticeable until the light's almost gone. The air didn't feel as stale. The food didn't taste like cardboard soaked in bleach. And the guards—some new ones, with sharper boots and unfamiliar faces—had this eerie silence about them. They didn't bark like the old ones. They just... stared. Measured.
Days had passed since the punishment, and my body still ached in the softest places. My wrists bore faint marks from the restraints, and the inside of my mouth still carried the taste of dust and blood. But I didn't limp anymore, and I didn't let them see pain. That was the thing about survival here—you either wore armor or got swallowed whole.
Tarn had been gone—dragged back to the male block after the punishment. His words still echoed in the corners of my skull: "If you want to survive here, stay low." Like hell I would.
What did staying low ever get anyone in this place, aside from slowly decaying in a corner? If he thought we could endure by being docile, then maybe he forgot what this place was really for.
Meanwhile, Abby and Hiliana? Oh, the sweet, sugar-coated whatever-the-hell-that-is they've got going on had turned into a rom-com in high-security orange. Abby had taken to braiding Hiliana's hair every morning—poor girl flinched at first but eventually leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut like a cat being brushed behind the ears. It was adorable. It was annoying. It was... painful, if I was being honest.
And here I was, the eternal third wheel. The audience to their slow-burning love story. I sipped my watery soup and muttered, "If I choke on this romance, I swear I'll haunt both your asses."
Abby only snorted, "You'll die bitter, Ryena."
"I'll die fashionable and bitter," I shot back, licking soup off my lip with exaggerated flair. "Better than being lovesick and sticky in prison."
Hiliana just rolled her eyes and leaned against Abby like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I felt that odd pang in my chest again. Not jealousy. Not exactly. More like a reminder that I'd spent so long being the storm, I forgot what it felt like to be the shelter.
But before I could spiral too far, the mess hall lit up with static from the speaker overhead. A chill crawled across my spine before the announcement even started.
∆ "Attention all inmates. New integration phase is under way. Rules have been modified. Cooperation and compliance will be rewarded. Further announcements will follow. This is not a drill."
Hiliana sat straighter. Abby lowered her spoon.
"Integration again?" I muttered. "What the hell is it this time?"
The last 'integration' was a nightmare. Forced team events, humiliating punishments, and the lingering scent of blood on stone. And yet... something felt different this time.
The next few days rolled in with uncomfortable ease. No alarms. No beatings. The guards didn't leer or bark. Instead, trays of food came with actual meat. One day, there were steamed greens on our plate. Greens! I nearly cried.
They even let us outside, not to the barren yard we were used to, but a reinforced garden patch fenced in with wired glass. There were benches, soil, even a lemon tree.
"What the hell is happening?" I muttered one morning, watching a group of inmates playing chess on a stone slab table.
"I think they're trying to control us with comfort," Abby said thoughtfully.
"People don't rebel when their stomachs are full," Hiliana added.
I snorted. "Speak for yourselves. I'll throw a riot with a steak in my hand if I feel like it."
Despite the banter, we all knew better. Nothing in this place came free. Especially not peace.
Later that night, back in our quarters, the air felt charged. The lights had dimmed. A low hum pulsed through the walls like the prison was breathing. I sat on my bed, twirling a spoon between my fingers, trying to ignore the low murmurs coming from Abby and Hiliana's corner.
Whispers. Giggles. That kind of soft tension that people who were almost lovers shared.
"Seriously, get a room," I finally snapped, tossing the spoon at Abby's head. She caught it mid-air and laughed.
"Maybe if you weren't so bitter—"
"Bitch, I'm seasoned," I replied coolly. "Don't confuse experience with bitterness."
Hiliana snorted, covering her mouth with her palm. Abby winked at me, and despite myself, I smiled. It was nice. Too nice.
That's when the lights flickered. The hum in the walls ceased.
And the announcement returned, this time slower, colder:
∆ "All units, prepare for Phase Two. You have one hour to report to the central platform. Failure to comply will result in immediate revocation of privileges."
A silence dropped in the room like a heavy curtain.
"Phase Two?" Abby said, eyes narrowing.
"Sounds fun," I muttered, standing up and adjusting my boots. "Let's see what the bastards cooked up this time."
But my stomach was twisting. Not with fear—no, fear was an old friend. This was something else. This was the feeling you got when the storm looked calm, but you could smell the lightning behind it.
Something was coming.
And I wasn't sure if we were ready.
I should have known better than to follow Hiliana's gut instinct. Her brilliant plan—as she'd smugly called it—was to take advantage of the shift change and sneak into the East Wing through the laundry shaft. Apparently, there was something "off" in that sector. I wasn't one to back down from a challenge, but right now? I was elbow-deep in darkness, crawling through a vent that smelled like unwashed socks and burnt oil.
"Hiliana," I growled, dragging myself forward, my knees bruising on rusted metal. "If we end up in a trash compactor again, I swear on your shoelaces—"
"Shhh!" Abby hissed behind me, voice sharp but teasing. "You'll give us away, drama queen."
"You love my drama," I smirked.
"She does," Hiliana whispered, and I could practically hear her grinning.
But then the vent forked, and in a blink of hesitation, I took the left path. The echo of Hiliana's voice faded too fast. A metallic thud rang behind me—someone had kicked a panel shut. I turned, cursed.
Gone.
I was alone.
"Shit," I muttered, sliding back, only to find the path blocked. Sealed. Locked from the outside.
"Cute," I mumbled, crawling forward instead.
The air turned colder the deeper I went. Stale, like no one had breathed it in years. I dropped from the vent into a dim corridor that didn't belong to any regular hallway of the prison. Everything was too… clean. Too sterile.
Too quiet.
Then I saw him.
Leaning against the wall like he owned the darkness itself.
His build was lean, but strong. His black uniform wasn't standard-issue—no ID tag, no weapon holster, just a matte black jacket that clung to his form like smoke. The lower half of his face was masked. Only his eyes showed. Cold. Calculating. Like he'd already figured me out in one glance.
"Lost?" he asked, voice low, dry as ash.
"Are you talking to me or admiring yourself in the shadows?" I snapped back, already in a fighting stance.
He didn't move, but something in the air shifted. A quiet tension coiled between us like a blade waiting to strike.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said.
"And you're not a real guard," I spat. "It doesn't take a genius to know it"
His brow twitched—just a little. He didn't confirm, didn't deny. That was enough.
When he lunged, it wasn't the clumsy charge of a rent-a-cop. It was swift. Calculated.
I twisted just in time, his hand brushing the fabric of my prison shirt as I ducked low, sweeping a kick toward his legs. He leapt back, graceful, his boots barely scraping the floor.
"Not bad," he murmured. "Why don't you entertain me?"
"You'll be impressed when I break your face so shut up"
I feigned left and struck right—an elbow to his ribs. But he caught me, spun me, and shoved me into the wall. Air rushed from my lungs. His hand pressed to my shoulder, pinning me.
"Interesting," he said, voice a rasp.
I glared up at him. "Let me guess. Mysterious guy with a tragic past, fake badge, and superiority complex? What are you, an undercover Bond villain?"
He stared. and removed his mask..Then—dammit—he smirked.
That smug, arrogant smirk.
I slammed my head back into his chin. He hissed and stumbled. I slipped out from under him and lunged again. My fist connected with his ribs—satisfying, but not enough.
"You're strong," he said, recovering fast, "but you're reckless."
"And you're annoying," I snapped.
Our bodies moved like storms crashing—him with precise, minimal movements; me with sharp, vicious bursts. We clashed, parted, circled again. A game of war. No wasted energy. No wasted words.
Finally, I flipped over a crate and ducked behind it, chest heaving.
He didn't follow.
Instead, his voice cut through the stillness. "Why are you really here?"
I peeked over. "Why do you care?"
"Because I could've killed you," he said bluntly. "And I didn't."
I blinked.
He was right.
That last blow? He held back.
So did I.
"…what are you?" I asked.
He paused. "Someone who's not your enemy. Yet."
That didn't comfort me, but something about his voice… it wasn't threatening. It was honest.
He turned his back to me—bold move. Arrogant.
"Go back," he said over his shoulder. "It will be more interesting ."
I stood slowly, bruised and blood buzzing.
"What??"
He didn't respond. Just walked away, vanishing into the corridor like he was never there.
I stood there for a long moment, heart still thudding in my ears, wondering if I'd just survived a threat…
…or met something far more dangerous.
Someone.