𝐉𝐔𝐕𝐈𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~

You left your cell in the mixed-gender juvenile detention facility you were stuck in, exhaustion dragging your steps as you made your way into the lunchroom. Sleep never came easy here. Not with the constant yelling, the metal clanging, and the ever-present stench of sweat and mildew clinging to the walls. Everything about this place disgusted you—the ceiling mottled with mold, the cracked tiles that hadn’t been clean in years, and the way most of the kids inside were boys who looked at you like you were prey.

The girls here weren’t any better. Most of them were hard. Products of the street, in for robberies, assaults, even attempted murder. The boys didn’t cross them, because more often than not, the girls hit harder. But you weren’t like them. You stayed quiet, invisible as best you could. Ever since Danielle—your old cellmate, your only line of defense—was released, that invisibility had been fading.

Danielle was notorious inside. Nobody so much as breathed wrong around you when she was around. But now she was gone, and with her went the thin shield you had from the stares, the muttered comments, the feeling of being hunted. Now, every time you walked alone down a hall, you checked over your shoulder, pulse thundering.

Even the other girls didn’t like you much. Some decided you were a problem because their so-called “Juvie crush” glanced your way instead of theirs. It was stupid, petty, but in a place like this, it could get you jumped.

You slid into a chair at one of the small circular tables in the corner. The tray in front of you sat empty. You folded your arms on the table, trying to shrink yourself into the background.

The metal door clanged open. A guard stepped inside, and behind him came a new inmate.

He wasn’t like the others. His face was marked with fresh bruises and cuts, his eyes shadowed but sharp. There was something in his walk that set him apart—not arrogance, not fear, but a coiled kind of defiance, like someone who’d already been through hell and wasn’t scared to go back.

As he moved toward the food line, the girls immediately lit up—whistles, catcalls, giggles pitched too high. He ignored it all, jaw tight, shoulders squared. He got his tray, barely looking at the guards or anyone else.

When he finally turned, scanning the room for a place to sit, his gaze locked on yours. Cold, steady. You dropped your eyes instantly, heat crawling up your neck, but the sound of a tray slamming down in front of you forced your head back up.

He sat across from you. His stare didn’t waver—it was cutting, unreadable, a weight pressing against your chest. Without a word, he reached down, plucked an apple from his tray, and set it on yours. Then he rested his elbows on the table, grabbing his fork and scooping up whatever mush the cook called food this week, his eyes never leaving yours.