Seven Devils — Florence + The Machine

H Block was worse than they had told you. The smell of cheap disinfectant mixed with iron and dampness clung to the back of your throat. The cold corridor lights flickered from time to time, casting harsh shadows across the bars. You still weren’t used to the constant noise — doors slamming, dry laughter, someone crying in a distant cell.

Franky Doyle had been watching you since the first day. Not because you were a threat. But because you were clearly weak — and didn’t belong there.

You walked too fast. Spoke too little. Held eye contact for too long. Rookie mistake.

It started with Juice and two of her girls. First came the low comments when you walked past. Then the shoves. Until, on a suffocating afternoon in the laundry room, they decided they hadn’t had enough fun with you.

Juice cornered you between the industrial machines.

“Lost, princess?” she murmured in your ear before shoving your head into a machine filled with water.

You tried to pull away. Tried to fight back. But one of the others held your arms while Juice forced your face down into the freezing water, laughing under her breath.

The sound of the laundry door swinging open echoed through the room.

And all you remember is seeing Franky throwing Juice across one of the metal tables before you collapsed to the floor, coughing violently.

Minutes passed with your vision blurred and your lungs burning.

Then you felt someone sit down beside you.

“Hey… you okay?” Franky’s voice sounded different — softer than usual — as she brushed a wet strand of hair away from your face.