Page 126 of Corrupt

Bleach. Sweat. Old damp. Sourness living in the walls.

The cell was barely bigger than a walk-in wardrobe. A concrete slab for a bed. A mattress so thin it might as well have been a joke. Stainless steel sink bolted to the wall. A toilet in the corner with no lid, no privacy, no dignity. Someone had scratched words into the paint above it—NO ONE GETS OUT CLEAN—cut deep enough to scar.

Figures.

I sat up, scraping my elbows on my knees, locked my jaw tight. My hands ached from clenching them in my sleep.

Remand.

Not sentenced. Not convicted. Parked. Left to rot while men in suits argued over how thoroughly they wanted to dismantle me.

I breathed through my nose. Neutral face. Same rules as always.

Emotion got you hurt. In here, it got you killed.

“Bang up’s over,” a screw shouted. “Breakfast. Move.”

The door crashed open. I stepped out onto the spur with the rest of them, shoulders loose, eyes flat. Grey sweats. Grey faces. Men who knew the rhythm of the place, and men pretending they didn’t care they were learning it. No one stared for long. They clocked me, though. Everyone did. My size. Posture. The fact I didn’t rush.

We funnelled down to the servery. Plastic trays slid across steel. Porridge ladled out in thick, beige slop. A plastic cup of tea the colour of piss. I took mine without comment, kept my head down, moved like I belonged.

Because for now, I did.

I sat at an empty table, back to the wall. First rule. The porridge steamed faintly. Smelt like nothing. Tasted worse. I ate it anyway. Fuel was fuel. And I was halfway through when a shadow fell across the table and a tray slapped down opposite mine, hard enough to rattle the plastic.

I didn’t look up.

Not until, “Hello, Razor.”

My stomach dropped.

I looked up.

And stared straight at a man I could pick out of a line up. Same smile. Same dead eyes. Older than the last time I’d seen him, but only in the way predators aged. Bigger, meaner, more patient. Tattoos creeping up his neck, disappearing under the collar of his sweatshirt. He belonged here. That was the problem.

“Ghost.” I continued eating my porridge, calm as dishwater.

He laughed. Low. Ugly. A sound designed to carry. Heads turned, then turned away just as fast.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” Ghost sat opposite me. “This wing’s usually above your pay grade.”

I lifted one shoulder. “World’s full of surprises.”

I ate my porridge, eyes down. Didn’t acknowledge the irony of it. Me across a plastic table from him. Didn’t let myself think about how, months back, Tristan had given me the knowledge to orchestrate his arrest for having the audacity to wander into my world. My streets. My air.

Now I was in his.

He leant forward, dumping his elbows on the table and lowering his voice so I had to lean in without meaning to.

“You must’ve really fucked up.” He chuckled, scooping another mouthful of porridge, and ate it as if it was a delicacy. “Who’d you piss off, eh?”

I peered up at him through my lashes, keeping my head bowed. Neutral. Unbothered.

“Must’ve been someone high up.” He shovelled in more slop. “Someone wanted to make a point. Thought it’d be funny to drop you in my prison. Someone with…contacts.”

He laughed again, leant back, rubbed his stomach so his T-shirt rode up, tattoos stretching over muscle.

“’Cause in here?” He tilted his head, gold teeth flashing. “You’re no one, Razor.”