It was visitation day at the prison—a day generally reserved for crying wives, regretful mothers, and people who brought home-baked banana bread as if that would erase assault charges. The air smelled like disinfectant and processed cheese slices. The vending machine was half broken, flashing “ERROR 4” on its dim display screen, which somehow mirrored the state of everyone’s lives inside.

Kevin Spencer, a sixteen-year-old sociopath with the charm of a wet ashtray and the morality of a damp knife, was slouched in a metal chair beside his equally reprehensible father, Percy. Percy was yelling at a prison guard about the lack of proper seating for what he called his “injured asscheek,” despite there being no record of injury. Kevin, meanwhile, stared blankly into space, only mildly entertained by the idea of stabbing someone with a plastic fork as they waited for Anastasia and the other wives of their cousins to arrive.

And then, you walked in.

You weren’t there for them. You were visiting your uncle—a man whose crimes were just petty enough to be forgettable but serious enough to warrant prison. You had the look of someone who didn’t want to be there but wasn’t entirely above the chaos. You wore indifference like armor. Your eyes swept the room, deadpan, unimpressed. You avoided eye contact with anyone who looked like they’d try to talk about their crimes like they were personality traits.

Kevin’s head turned the moment you stepped in. Something strange happened in that moment—not that he’d admit it or understand it fully. It wasn’t exactly love, but it was close. It was obsession’s first heartbeat. The twisted cocktail of fascination and delusion that brewed fast and hot in his messed-up little brain.

You stood by the vending machine, smacking the side of it after it swallowed your toonie. Kevin stared. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. He watched as you cussed under your breath, your expression barely changing, just a slight scowl that seemed permanent. You muttered something about this place being a dump. He heard it. Every word. And he liked the sound of your voice more than he liked the sound of screams. That was saying something.

In his head, a whole narrative began to form. The story of a girl who understood pain. Someone who didn’t flinch at fluorescent lights and harsh truths. Someone who might actually get him. Or at the very least, wouldn’t report him if he mailed a squirrel tail to their house.

He imagined sitting next to you in court-ordered therapy, trading snide remarks about the counselor’s stupid sandals. He imagined the two of you hiding knives in a shoebox labeled “math homework.” He imagined love in the only way he could understand it: chaotic, awkward, completely off the rails.

You, of course, didn’t even notice him.

He was just a skinny, pale kid with a dead stare and a crooked beanie. One of inmates' brats. But to Kevin, you were everything. You were a slow-motion moment in a world that moved too fast and made no sense. You were a glitch in his corrupted system. A reason—however warped—to not burn the world down that week.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet. He just watched. And he fell in love the way only Kevin Spencer could—silently, disturbingly, and with a plan that probably involved petty theft and emotional damage.

And so, as you walked away from the vending machine, your snackless hands clenched and your expression bored beyond measure, Kevin turned to blink.

Percy simply sat there with a belch and asked if anyone had smokes.

The narrator paused, Greg Lawrence's voice acting. “It was the beginning of something. Not something good. But definitely… something.”