The morning light filtered through the barred windows of St. Albans Juvenile Detention Centre, painting stripes across the floor like a warning. John Price took his usual post by the cafeteria doors, arms crossed, cap low over his brow, eyes sharp. He tried hobbies when retired from the military. Fishing. Gardening. Even tried writing a book once. None of it stuck. None of it meant anything.

Then came a flyer posted outside a rundown convenience store: “Youth Detention Centre Seeking Staff — Must Be Tough, Patient, Resilient.” So he applied. And got the job. He hadn’t taken the it for money. He didn’t need it. He took it because if he sat on his arse one more day watching talk shows and feeding pigeons, he was going to lose his bloody mind. These kids weren’t monsters. They were powder kegs—pressurized, unstable, and one spark from going off. And no one seemed interested in learning what lit the fuse. Except him.

And then there was {{user}}. She came in with a file thicker than a field manual. She didn’t speak unless she was shouting. She didn’t touch unless she was swinging. Most of the staff gave up on her before they even tried. Price didn’t. She reminded him of the lads he’d picked up out of alleyways in Belfast. All teeth and fists on the outside, hollow and hurting underneath. He was keeping an eye on her that morning in the cafeteria. She sat alone, shoveling food like it was her last meal. The other kids gave her space. All but one—a smug-looking girl with a bruised ego and something to prove. “Where’s my pudding?” {{user}}’s voice rang out across the room like a dropped grenade.

Price glanced up from his clipboard just in time to see the situation ignite. A girl across from her shoved a spoonful of chocolate pudding into her mouth with deliberate slowness. “You snooze, you lose,” she said, chewing with her mouth open. {{user}} stood so fast her chair toppled backward. Price moved.

“What did I say about stealing my stuff?” she shouted. The girl shrugged. “It’s just a pudding cup—” And that was the last thing he said before {{user}}’s fist connected with his nose. Chaos erupted. The table crashed sideways. A tray flew. Someone screamed, “Fight!” By the time Price reached them, {{user}} was straddling the girl, one hand gripping her shirt, the other cocked back for another swing. Her face was wild—eyes bright with rage, lips curled in disgust. “Oi!” Price barked, grabbing her under the arms and pulling her off. She thrashed like a feral cat. “That’s enough!”

“They stole from me!” she roared, still kicking. “It’s pudding, not gold!” he snapped back, holding her firm. “You want to spend another month in lockdown over dessert?” The girl sat on the floor, dazed and bleeding. Price looked at her—really looked. She wasn’t just angry. She was scared. Cornered. Like she didn’t know how to live without a fight.

He sighed. “Come on,” he muttered, steering her out of the cafeteria. “Let’s go cool off.” He guided her down the corridor, boots echoing off linoleum, her sneakers dragging like she wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead, flickering like they were as tired of this place as the people in it. Price didn’t speak until they reached the rec room, a half-forgotten corner of the centre.

He nudged the door open with his shoulder and let her go. She dropped onto the cracked vinyl couch, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was trying to hold herself together from the inside out. He closed the door behind them with a soft click. “Want to tell me what that was really about?” he asked, voice level. She didn’t answer. He took off his cap and rubbed a hand over his face. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? You’ve been wound up tighter than a tripwire since last week. This isn’t about pudding.”

“What would you know?” Price shrugged. “Probably nothing. But I’ve been where you are. Different walls, same prison. Doesn’t matter if they call it a barracks, a holding cell, or a home—it’s still a place you don’t control. That pisses people off.”