The cold weight of steel cuffs bite into my wrists as I sit shackled to a chair between concrete walls of the Warden's office. It's been two weeks since my sentencing, and the mustachioed man running this prison paces around me, muttering angrily about a reality I'm still trying to process.
All my eighteen years of life, being good-looking has been a blessing. There's no denying a certain amount of privilege when you have an angled jaw and thick lashes—even as a dude.
But the Warden has said something so devastating, my ears are still ringing with its implication.
"You're going to be eaten alive out there!"
That's right. My face won't help here, it's a target.
"Are you listening, Andy?" the Warden shouts through my quiet reflections.
"I'm listening," I bite back, but I feel a gnawing panic rising up from the pit of my stomach. I lift my hands and gesture around the prison I've been dragged to, shackles clinking. "What am I supposed to do then? Paper-bag it for a year?"
Despite what anyone says, I really don't think it's my fault I'm in this situation. How was I supposed to know that playing music on my live-streams was copyright infringement? How was I supposed to know the Judge would make an example out of me and sentence me to a year in prison?
Even my fucking lawyers didn't expect this.
They promised me community service… a reduced sentence with good behavior…
The Warden, at least, knows the stakes. I know he's taking it seriously, so I swallow back my anger. The media has already lit up enough attention about my story without me getting ripped to pieces on his watch. He pulls at his mustache—handle-barred and at least three decades out of style—before turning and calling his secretary from a phone on his desk.
"Karen, send Bridges in immediately," he snaps. I can't help but notice he rarely makes eye contact with me, so I stare around the cold room that smells like coffee and stale pastries, taking it all in before I'm inevitably moved to a cell.
A cage.
My heart pounds wildly as fear grips my imagination. I think the absolute worst; being raped, being assaulted, being killed.
It is only a minute of panicking later that a high-ranking uniformed guard enters the Warden's office. I twist in my chair and take in the tall figure entering; dark-haired with a stoic grimace. Our eyes meet and this man's honey-brown eyes narrow.
I feel my heart seize up and a cold chill run through me at his look of loathing.
"I have a situation, Lieutenant," the Warden begins, gesturing my presence in the middle of the room.
"Another one, Warden?" the man drawls, crossing his arms tight over badges decorating his uniformed chest. He's calm, but pissed—his eyes still sharply glaring in my direction.
"Just look at him, Bridges," the Warden instructs, not clocking the way his Lieutenant hasn't taken his eyes off me since he entered. "If he's thrown in gen pop, we might as well tape a neon sign to his ass saying, 'fresh meat'!"
Offended and disgusted, my jaw drops.
"Warden, the cell blocks aren't much better—" Bridges begins, the corner of his mouth turning up in a small smile at my horrified expression.
The Warden pulls on his mustache as he rounds on the two of us, manic eyes searching for a solution that is just beyond his grasp. "The hell are you talking about, not much better? Bridges, tightened security is the bare minimum. Don't you have room in that third block?"
The uniformed Lieutenant Bridges loses some of his smug superiority at this suggestion. His face pales before he responds.
"Third block? Warden you can't be serious…"
"Why not?" the Warden gruffs, gesturing at me again. "That one guy—Ace, was it? He transferred from gen pop for hating shit like this right?"
A deafening silence swirls around the small office as Bridges' brain races to counter this plan. "Sir… listen…" he begins in a low tone after a long moment. "This kid'll be way worse in Third Block—"
"Why?" the Warden snaps, making me jump. "You don't even have control over your blocks, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, I do—"
"Then set him up in Third Block," the Warden shouts, "and God help you if any of those animals hurt a single hair on his head. Am I clear, Lieutenant?"
"Crystal, sir."
Lieutenant Bridges takes out a key and bends down quietly in front of me to unlock my shackles chained to the floor.
The back of his neck is absolutely burning red, and I don't blame him.
Even I'm embarrassed at the way the Warden knocked him down a peg and burdened him with a seemingly impossible responsibility to keep me safe.