A fresh burst of agony exploded through Frank's stomach as the prisoner's boot slammed into him with a sickening thud.
He folded in on himself, curling into a fetal position on the cold, filthy floor of the communal washroom. A strangled gasp tore from his throat, but no real air came. Pain blurred his vision. Humiliation burned hotter than the bruises.
Before he could recover, rough hands seized him again.
They dragged him up despite his weak resistance, his heels scraping helplessly across the damp concrete floor. He was hauled toward one of the stained toilet bowls in the corner, its rim yellowed with neglect, its stench thick with old urine and harsh disinfectant.
Frank gagged.
"No... please..." he choked out.
But his plea was swallowed by cruel laughter.
A heavy hand clamped down on the back of his head.
Then, with one brutal shove, they forced his face into the toilet.
Freezing, foul water rushed into his nose and mouth. Frank jerked violently, panic detonating inside him. His lungs screamed for air as he thrashed, his cuffed hands and battered body too weak to fight them off. Bubbles rose and burst around his face, and the sound of his own desperate struggle echoed through the tiled room.
He was drowning.
Drowning in filth.
Drowning in disgrace.
Just as darkness began creeping into the edges of his vision, they yanked him back out.
Frank collapsed onto the floor, coughing so hard his whole body convulsed. Dirty water poured from his mouth as he retched, his chest heaving with ragged, painful breaths. His body trembled uncontrollably.
The lead prisoner crouched in front of him, his face twisted with cold amusement.
"In your next life," he growled, "when I call you, you answer."
Then he drove one last kick into Frank's bruised ribs.
Pain ripped through him again.
The man spat on the floor beside his face, then straightened and walked out with the others. Their laughter bounced off the washroom walls long after they were gone.
Frank lay there for what felt like forever, shivering in a puddle of filthy water and his own blood.
Every inch of him screamed in protest when he finally forced himself onto his hands and knees. His stomach churned violently. His ribs felt splintered. His forehead throbbed where fresh blood slid down the side of his face.
The trip back to the cell block felt endless.
He crawled at first.
Then staggered.
Then dragged himself forward with one hand on the wall, using the rough concrete for support. By the time he reached the corridor, his body had become a canvas of swelling bruises, deepening purple and blue beneath the harsh prison lights.
The other inmates watched him pass.
Some with amusement.
Some with indifference.
A few, perhaps, with pity.
But none of them moved to help.
Frank tore a strip from the inside hem of his prison shirt and pressed it against the cut on his forehead, trying to stop the bleeding.
When I get out of this hell, he swore silently, a spark burning deep beneath the weight of his suffering, I'll clear my name.
His jaw tightened.
And I'll win you back, Hailey. I'll make you see the truth.
When he spotted a prison guard passing by the bars, Frank forced himself forward and grabbed the steel with both hands.
"Please," he croaked, his voice raw and broken. "Please... let me make one call. Just one. I'm begging you."
The guard paused.
He was younger than the others, and for a brief second, something human flickered in his eyes as he took in Frank's battered face.
Then he sighed.
"Sorry, Frank. We can't help you. Orders."
"Please," Frank begged again, pressing closer to the bars. "Even three minutes. Two minutes. Someone needs to know I'm here."
The guard's expression hardened.
"I said no."
He turned to leave.
And just as despair threatened to swallow Frank whole, another voice cut through the corridor.
"Frank Norris."
An older guard approached, his tone blunt and impatient.
"You have a visitor. Move."
Frank froze.
A wild, irrational hope surged through him so suddenly it almost hurt.
Hailey.
She came.
She knows I didn't do it.
His pulse pounded as they led him to the visitors' ward—a dim room split in two by a scratched, grimy plexiglass barrier.
But the man waiting on the other side wasn't salvation.
He was ruin in human form.
Pascal.
He sat there in an expensive suit, looking healthy, polished, and infuriatingly at ease. A smug smile curled across his face the moment Frank stepped in.
"Well, well," Pascal said lazily. "Look who ended up behind bars."
Frank stopped in front of the barrier, every muscle in his body going rigid.
"You..." he whispered.
His voice shook with disbelief, rage, and something even deeper.
Betrayal.
"What did I ever do to you?"
He had always known Pascal disliked him.
But this?
This level of hatred?
This carefully planned destruction?
He had never imagined it.
Pascal laughed softly.
It was a quiet sound.
A chilling one.
"That's the wrong question, Frank," he said. "What you should be asking is... how am I standing here perfectly fine after stabbing myself?"
He leaned back in his chair, smiling wider.
Then, with theatrical slowness, he lifted his shirt.
Frank's eyes widened.
Pascal's abdomen was flawless.
No scar.
No wound.
No mark.
Nothing.
Frank's fingers curled into fists.
"When I get out of here," he said, his voice low and deadly, "I'm coming for you."
Pascal pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. "Oh no. I'm terrified."
He leaned closer to the glass, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"I'll make sure you never leave this place alive. But killing you now would be too merciful." His smile sharpened. "No, Frank. I want to watch you suffer. I want to watch you break. I want you begging God to end your miserable little life."
Frank stared at him through the barrier, breathing hard.
"Why?" he demanded. "We were close. I treated you like a brother. I shared everything with you."
"Close?" Pascal repeated with a sneer. "Don't insult me."
His expression darkened.
"We were never close. You were useful. That's all."
He tapped a finger against the glass between them.
"You've always been my rival. In business. In success. In everything that mattered." His lips curled. "And worst of all... in love."
Frank's jaw clenched.
Pascal's eyes turned distant for a moment, poisoned by old resentment.
"I grew up with Hailey," he said. "She was supposed to be mine. I was the one who should have married her. But then you showed up... and she fell for you."
Frank let out a humorless laugh despite the pain tearing through his body.
"You loved her, but you never told her," he said. "How is that my fault? If you were too insecure to speak up, that's on you."
Pascal's face twisted.
"Insecure?" he snapped. "By the time I was ready to make my move, you were already dating her."
Then he smiled.
A cold, victorious smile.
"But it doesn't matter now. Because I won."
Frank said nothing.
Pascal savored the silence.
"In three months," he said, "I'll be the one marrying Hailey."
The words hit harder than any fist.
Frank's blood ran cold.
Pascal rose to his feet and adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket with smug precision.
"She'll be mine, Frank. She always was. From the moment we were children, she was meant to be with me."
Then he turned casually to one of the guards lingering nearby and slipped a thick wad of cash into his hand.
Frank went still.
"I want his stay here to become even more unbearable," Pascal said lightly. "But don't break his hands or legs. Not yet. Hailey might want to see his face before the wedding." He paused, smiling. "Just torture him."
The guard pocketed the money without a word.
Frank's vision darkened with fury.
Pascal gave him one final mocking glance, then walked away as if he had merely concluded a pleasant business meeting.
Leaving Frank behind with shattered hope, burning hatred, and a silence more brutal than violence.
"Move," the guard muttered a moment later, jerking his shoulder. "Back to your cell."
As they walked, the older man glanced at him and snorted.
"If you come out of this prison alive, it'll be by God's grace alone. You must've offended someone powerful."
Frank lifted his head slowly.
"Who said he's powerful?" he asked.
The guard let out a harsh laugh. "Look around you. You've been locked in here for nearly three days without a single phone call, without a single favor, without a single person getting you out. That tells me everything I need to know."
Another inmate nearby overheard and scoffed.
"If you really knew someone important, you wouldn't still be rotting in this dump."
Frank's expression didn't change.
"Whether I make a call or not," he said quietly, "I'll be out before that wedding."
For one second, the corridor went still.
Then the entire cell block erupted in laughter.
One inmate leaned against the bars, grinning. "If you knew how much money is being paid to keep you here, you'd stop dreaming about escape."
"And the money to beat you?" another prisoner added. "That's not small either."
A third laughed. "Besides, what makes you think anyone you call would even care enough to save you?"
Frank turned his head and looked at them.
His gaze was calm.
Steady.
Dangerously calm.
The laughter slowly faded.
Then the lead prisoner from the washroom rose from his bunk, rolling his shoulders with a grin.
"Well," he said, cracking his knuckles, "looks like it's time for your afternoon tea, dear Frank Norris."
Another prisoner frowned suddenly.
"Norris?" he repeated. "Isn't that the surname of the richest family in the country?"
For a brief moment, silence fell.
Then the scarred prisoner barked out a laugh.
"Yeah, and what of it? You think this pathetic bastard belongs to that family?" He spat to the side. "Whether he's a king or a beggar, we were paid to do a job."
The men closed in around Frank, one by one, forming a tight circle.
Frank lifted his fists.
It was a pointless gesture.
But it was all he had left.
The first man lunged, and Frank managed to drive a punch into his jaw. The inmate staggered half a step, shocked more than hurt.
Then the others came.
Five against one.
Too many.
Too fast.
Frank fought as long as he could, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with bare hands. Blow after blow crashed into him, driving him backward, breaking down what little strength he had left.
There was no one to help him.
No one to stop them.
No one to care whether he lived through the night.
So as the beating began again, Frank did the only thing he could.
He endured.
And somewhere beneath the pain, beneath the blood, beneath the crushing weight of betrayal, one thought burned brighter than all the rest:
Survive.
Survive... and take everything back.