Alejandro hurried to his feet when he heard the metal scrape outside. The sound of boots dragged along the corridor, slow and heavy. Then the door clicked open.
Two guards stepped in, gripping an old man between them. The man was barely conscious, his body hanging loose like wet cloth. His face was down, hair wild, beard long and rough as if it had not felt a blade in years. His clothes were nothing but torn rags clinging to thin bones.
"Come give us a hand," one of the guards called out.
Alejandro rushed forward. The moment he touched the man, he felt the weight. It was strange—this was not the weight of flesh alone. It felt like carrying grief itself, like lifting a thousand tons of sorrow. The old man groaned, barely aware of where he was.
Together they laid him on the stinking bed across the room. The mattress sank and released a foul smell into the air. Alejandro stepped back, breathing through his mouth.
The guards said nothing more. They walked out, boots echoing against the cold floor. The door shut with a hard clang. The lock turned.
Silence returned.
Alejandro stood there for a moment, staring at the old man. The room felt smaller than before.
He slowly lowered himself onto his own bed. The moment his body touched the mattress, he felt them—the tiny bites crawling along his skin. Bed bugs. They feasted without mercy. He flinched but did not move away.
"I'll get used to it," he muttered under his breath.
There was nothing else to do.
No phone.
No book.
No sound but his own breathing and the faint groan of the old man across the room.
He lay on his back, staring into the darkness.
His thoughts began to run wild.
His wife.
How did it come to this?
She had pushed him into this mess. Or had she? His chest tightened. He did not even know what to believe anymore. He would never see the city again. Never walk those streets. Never feel the sun on his face without bars between them.
This bed. This rotten bed. This was where he would spend his life.
He swallowed hard.
He could no longer prove his innocence.
His manager had led him here. That thought hit him like a blow.
My manager.
The words echoed in his head.
He turned to his side, gripping the thin blanket. Tears filled his eyes before he could stop them. They slid down the sides of his face and soaked into the dirty pillow.
"He led me into this," Alejandro whispered, his voice breaking. "He told me to plead guilty. He said he would find a way out for me. He promised."
He gave a dry laugh that quickly turned into a sob.
"Yet nothing."
His chest shook as he cried. The sound bounced off the walls and came back to him, making it feel louder, heavier.
"I'm cooked," he said under his breath, almost laughing at himself through tears.
He could not even see the footage they showed in court. They claimed it proved he killed the guards. Killed them. The word felt foreign in his mind.
How could he be this foolish?
He had trusted someone who did not deserve it.
Alejandro covered his face with both hands and cried out in agony. The sound tore from deep within him, raw and painful.
Across the room, the old man shifted slightly but did not wake.
Then another thought struck him.
His wife.
She had told him she was pregnant.
He froze.
They had been together for three years without a child. Three long years of waiting. Three years of hope and silent prayers.
Why now?
Why at this moment, when he was locked away?
Was it even true? Or was that another lie wrapped in soft words?
His heart pounded so hard he thought it would burst.
He sat up suddenly, breath uneven. The walls felt like they were closing in.
He reached for his neck with both hands.
Maybe this was the only way out.
He pressed his fingers into his throat and squeezed. His eyes widened. His breath caught. A sharp pain shot through him. His vision blurred, and dark spots danced before his eyes.
He squeezed harder.
His lungs screamed for air.
But his body fought back.
A loud cough burst from his chest. His grip loosened. He bent forward, choking and gasping, pulling in air like a drowning man reaching the surface.
He fell back onto the bed, coughing hard.
He could not even do that.
He could not keep living like this.
"This is hell," he whispered, his voice shaking.
Anger rose inside him, hot and wild.
He jumped to his feet and ran to the door. He slammed his fists against the metal.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The sound echoed down the corridor.
"I'm innocent!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "I was impersonated! Someone else did it! Somebody let me out of here!"
He pounded again, harder, until his knuckles burned.
"Please! I didn't do it!"
He pressed his ear against the cold metal, hoping for footsteps, a voice, anything.
Nothing.
Only silence.
The silence was worse than insults. Worse than chains.
He slid down slowly, his back against the door, until he was sitting on the floor. His knees bent up to his chest.
His breathing slowed, but his tears did not.
He dropped to his knees fully and lifted his face toward the darkness.
"Help me," he whispered.
He tried to pray. The words he once knew would not come. His mind was too heavy, too broken.
He opened his mouth again, but what came out did not sound like prayer. They were just words, empty and scattered. They sounded strange, like he was calling into a void that did not answer.
He did not care anymore.
"Anyone," he whispered. "Even if it's a demon. Let it come. Just get me out of here."
His voice faded into the room.
Across from him, the old man suddenly coughed—a dry, deep sound that cut through the silence.
Alejandro froze.
He slowly turned his head.
The old man's fingers twitched. His eyes, half hidden under thick brows and tangled hair, moved slightly.
Alejandro stared at him, heart racing.
For a moment, he forgot his own pain.
The room felt heavier. The air felt thicker.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and slowly stood up. His legs trembled as he walked toward the other bed.
The old man's chest rose and fell weakly.
Alejandro stood beside him, unsure what to do.
He looked at the torn rags, the bruised skin, the cracked lips.
Was this what he would become after years in this place?
Forgotten. Broken. Half alive.
A cold fear settled deep in his bones.
He stepped back slowly and returned to his own bed.
Alejandro lay down again, staring into nothing.
His body was tired, but his mind refused to rest.
He thought of the city lights. The noise. The traffic. The smell of street food. The warmth of his home.
He thought of his wife's smile. Was it real? Or had it always hidden something?
He thought of the child she claimed to carry.
Would that child grow up hearing that his father was a killer?
Tears filled his eyes again, but this time he did not sob. They simply flowed, silent and steady.
"I didn't do it," he whispered to the dark.
No one answered.
The old man shifted again, letting out a faint groan.
Alejandro closed his eyes tightly, as if that would block out reality.
But the darkness behind his eyelids was the same as the darkness in the room.
Endless.
Cold.
Heavy.
He curled onto his side, pulling the thin blanket close despite the crawling bugs.
"I'll get used to it," he repeated softly.
But deep down, he knew some things you never get used to.
The silence.
The regret.
The betrayal.
And the slow fear that maybe, just maybe, no one was coming to save him.
He just lay there,eyes wide open. Just as his breathing began to slow, "something was watching".