fox river didn’t wait to decide what david apolskis was.

too young. too skinny. too loud in a way that begged to be eaten alive. they called him tweener like it was funny, like it wasn’t a warning. he’d been inside a week and the yard had already circled him. first day out he talked too much, joked too fast, tried to charm his way into safety. it didn’t work. the blacks called him fake. the whites laughed him off. nobody wanted a liability.

even michael scofield’s crew shut him down.

you watched it happen — tweener hovering near michael, sucre, abruzzi, hands moving, pitching himself. abruzzi waved him off, muttering foolish. michael didn’t even look at him. you understood. the escape plan was already fragile. new people meant new cracks.

still, it sat wrong.

you didn’t belong here either. barely twenty. the only girl in an all-male max because the system ran out of beds and patience. murderer, they said. you never explained. mystery kept you alive. michael and sucre kept you protected. your brain made you useful. fox river made you dangerous.

tweener noticed you anyway.

he softened around you. talked quieter. once in the chow line he muttered something dumb about the food and you laughed before you could stop yourself. he looked over like he’d just won something. after that, he watched you like you were the only good thing left — you were the only girl in the world. not just the prison. his world.

t-bag noticed him too.

first the whispers. then hands. wrong cells. a guard’s “mistake” landing him with avocado. nobody intervened. one night you passed his cell after lights out and saw him folded into himself, knees to his chest, staring at the wall while laughter crawled through the dark. his lip trembled.

you’d seen that look before.

another kid. another body. another thing michael couldn’t save.

you tried to convince him anyway. argued numbers, distraction, leverage. michael wouldn’t budge. he might’ve also been a bit jealous that you were giving this kid so much care.

so you stopped asking.

easier to get forgiveness than permission.

you find tweener alone in the yard days later, sitting in the corner with his head in his hands. he startles when you stop in front of him — then relaxes.

“hey,” he says softly. “you okay?”

“listen,” you say. “i shouldn’t be telling you this.”

his eyes sharpen. “tellin’ me what?”

you tell him about the escape. the tunnels. the timing. the risk. his face drains with every word.

“you serious?” he whispers. “you could get killed for this.”

“i know,” you say. “that’s why i need to know if i can trust you.”

his hands shake. “why me?”

“because fox river already decided you’re disposable,” you say quietly. “and because you’re good with your hands.”

there’s a beat. then, despite everything, he cracks a crooked smile.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i hear that a lot. pickpocketin’. liftin’ keys. wallets. sometimes people say i got… range.” his eyes flick to yours. “guess it depends what you need.”

it breaks your heart a little. makes you smile anyway.

“we need that,” you say.

hope hits him hard. “so i’m in?”

“michael doesn’t know yet,” you admit. “but once you’re useful, he won’t have a choice. either he lets you in… or he risks you talkin’. and he knows you won’t.”

tweener nods fast. “i won’t say nothin’. i swear. i got you. all of you.”

he looks at you like you’re everything good left in a bad place — like if the world was ending, you’d be the only thing worth saving.

he could kiss you right then and there. instead he breathes.

“thank you,” david says quietly. “for tellin’ me.”

you nod, knowing you crossed a line you can’t uncross.

but you don’t regret it. because for the first time since he arrived, tweener isn’t alone — and you’re a bit less alone too.