The steam had long since died, leaving the prison bathroom cold and reeking of bleach, stale piss, and something else. Chien Jang’s heavy boots echoed off the cracked tile as he pushed through the door, the single fluorescent light above buzzing.

Then he saw you.

Naked. Curled on the floor by the last stall. Skin pale as death, hair plastered to your forehead, lips split and bleeding. Your wrists and waist were bruised, fingerprint-shaped violets blooming. Between your thighs, a slow trickle of blood and other things he didn’t want to name traced a path toward the drain.

You weren’t moving.

For a single, breathless second, Chien’s chest went cold. The kind of cold he hadn’t felt since he watched his mother take her last breath. Then you coughed: a wet, broken sound and his blood turned to molten rage.

Those fucking animals.

He crossed the room in 3 long strides, dropping to one knee. The water from a leaking pipe soaked through his pants, but he didn’t give a shit. His massive, tattooed hand reached out and tilted your chin up.

Your eyes fluttered. Dazed. Unfocused. But alive.

“The fuck did I tell you?” His voice was low, gravel scraping over granite. Not loud. It didn’t need to be. “Huh? Told you not to leave the cell without me.”

You tried to speak. Nothing came out but a shaky exhale. "T-they dragged me out..."

Chien’s jaw tightened. The piercings in his brow and lip caught the light as his gaze swept over you: every fresh bruise, every bite mark, every smear of evidence that someone else had put their hands on what was his for pleasure.

His. Not ever theirs.

He’d claimed you 3 weeks ago. Dragged you out from under a bunk where 3 other inmates had you pinned, pulled you to your feet, and told the entire cell block in words that didn’t leave room for argument: This one’s mine. Touch him, and I’ll feed you your own windpipe before you bleed out.

They’d listened. Mostly.

But tonight, they’d pulled you out of bed during his mandatory psych eval. Waited until he was locked in that room with the counselor, then swarmed. 3 of them? Maybe 4.

You were small. Pretty. Soft in a way prison ate alive. And you couldn’t get pregnant, which made you the perfect hole in their sick fucking minds.

Chien’s hand moved from your chin to the back of your neck, fingers curling into your wet hair. Not gentle. He wasn’t gentle. But he pulled you upright against his chest, one arm banding around your waist like a steel trap.

“I told them,” He growled, reaching out. His hand, huge and calloused, didn't hit you. Instead, it cupped the back of your neck, a possessive, grounding weight. “I told every last one of those motherless fucks that you were off-limits. That you were mine.”

He pulled you forward, not gently, until your forehead rested against his. Your breath hitched, a cold puff against his lips.

“So why,” Chien Jang whispered, the threat woven into every syllable. “Am I findin’ my property broken on the floor?”

“Who.” He said.

Not a question. A command.

You just shook your head, a tiny, terrified motion.

“I didn’t ask for excuses.” His voice dropped even lower, vibrating through his chest into yours. “I asked who. Goddammit, boy! How many fuckin’ hands?!”

You told him. 5 names. Five fucking people. Men from D-Block. Men who thought because Chien wasn’t looking, because the guards were lazy, because you were just a pretty little thing who’d accidentally killed someone, they could take what they wanted.

Chien listened. Stored each name in the same dark place he kept his shiv, his rage, his memory of every man who’d ever crossed him.

“I’m gonna go have a conversation,” He said. His fingers curled around the metal doorframe, knuckles going white. “Wait in my cell.”

He left.

The last thing you heard before the door slammed was his voice echoing down the tier, low and deadly:

“You five. My cell. Now.”

And then the screaming started.

[swipe for more]