The cold steel bars and the dim flickering light of the prison hallway had become Carlos's new reality. A week had passed. Then a month. Then two. Time no longer held meaning. His knuckles were bruised from the fights he had gotten into. His back ached from the hard cot he slept on. But the worst part was the silence—the deafening isolation.
He sat on the stiff metal bench in the visiting area, his wrists shackled, his gaze hard as his lawyer walked in. The man sat across from him, setting a folder down on the table between them.
"There's no good news, Carlos," the lawyer began, sighing. "The judge has refused to reopen the case. He says the evidence is solid, and there are no grounds for an appeal."
Carlos exhaled sharply, leaning back against the cold wall. He had expected this.
"But," the lawyer continued, his voice lowering, "Minister Donovan has made an offer. He says if you agree to marry Laura, he'll make all of this disappear."
Carlos's jaw clenched. That bastard.
"So let me get this straight," Carlos said, his voice laced with venom. "I marry the woman I supposedly raped, and suddenly, I'm no longer a criminal?"
The lawyer sighed. "That's exactly what's happening."
Carlos let out a bitter chuckle. "Tell him to go to hell."
"Carlos—"
"No," he cut in, his voice firm. "I'd rather rot in here for five years than let that man control my life."
The lawyer studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright. I'll let them know."
Carlos simply nodded. He wasn't going to be a puppet in their game.
---
Minutes after his lawyer left, the guard walked back in.
"You have another visitor," the guard said.
Carlos frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone. He was led back to the visiting area, and as he sat down, a familiar face appeared from the other side of the glass.
It was the investigator—the same man he had met in the club before everything in his life fell apart.
Carlos picked up the phone on his side of the glass, his voice low. "What the hell are you doing here?"
The investigator smirked. "I figured you'd want an update. I've been digging."
Carlos's eyes narrowed. "And?"
The investigator leaned in slightly. "Your mother—your real mother—I found out where she's from."
Carlos's breath caught in his throat. His grip on the phone tightened.
"She is Vasiliev ."
Carlos's mind spun. Vasiliev.
But before Carlos could ask more, the prison guard stepped forward.
"Time's up," the guard announced.
Carlos cursed under his breath. "Come back," he ordered. "Tell me everything."
The investigator gave him a knowing look. "I will."
Carlos was dragged away before he could respond, but one thing was clear—the truth about his mother was bigger than he had ever imagined.
The prison was a brutal, lawless world where survival depended on strength, alliances, and keeping your head down. Carlos learned that the hard way.
A month later,
It started in the yard, during afternoon recreation. Carlos was sitting alone, lost in thought, when he felt a shadow loom over him.
"Hey, boy."
Carlos barely looked up before a fist slammed into his jaw, sending him sprawling. The inmates around them erupted in shouts, forming a circle.
Carlos staggered up, wiping blood from his lip, his eyes locking onto his attacker—a heavily tattooed man with a smirk that reeked of arrogance.
"What?, wanna fight," the man sneered. "Come on, fight me."
Carlos clenched his fists. He had nothing left to lose.
He swung.
The punch landed hard, sending the man stumbling back, but before Carlos could react, two more guys jumped in. Fists and kicks rained down on him, his ribs screaming in pain.
The guards arrived, breaking up the fight with batons and shouts. Carlos was dragged away, his arms pinned behind him. His punishment was immediate—two weeks in the worst job in prison: cleaning dishes and toilets.
The stench in the kitchen was unbearable. Rotten food, sweat, and cheap disinfectant mixed into a nauseating odor. Carlos scrubbed at a steel tray, his body aching from the earlier beating.
"That's not how you do it," a gruff voice said beside him.
Carlos turned, finding himself face to face with an older inmate—broad shoulders, scars running down his arms, and a sharp, calculating gaze.
"The name's Castro," the man said, rinsing his own tray. "You're the guy who refused bail, huh?"
Carlos didn't respond immediately. He studied Castro, sensing that the man had been through hell.
"What's it to you?" he finally muttered.
Castro smirked. "Nothing. Just that only fools and men with grudges turn down a ticket out of here."
Carlos huffed a bitter laugh. "Guess I'm both."
Castro leaned against the counter. "Let me guess. Someone framed you?"
Carlos eyed him warily. "How do you know?"
Castro chuckled. "Kid, everyone in here has a story. Some are guilty. Some aren't. Either way, we all ended up in the same shithole."
Carlos, against his better judgment, sighed and told him the short version—how he was accused of a crime he didn't commit, how the minister offered him freedom in exchange for marriage, and how he refused.
When he finished, Castro nodded slowly.
"Yeah, that sounds about right. Corrupt bastards do whatever they want ."
Carlos frowned. "You say that like you've been there before."
Castro's expression darkened. For a moment, Carlos saw a deep sadness in his eyes.
"I was a businessman once," Castro said. "Owned a security firm. We provided protection for high-profile clients—politicians, businessmen, celebrities. You name it."
Carlos listened intently.
"One day, I got a job protecting a senator's daughter. She was young, barely twenty, reckless, and had too many enemies. She was kidnapped on my watch. I did everything to get her back, but when we found her, it was too late."
Carlos saw the pain flicker across Castro's face.
"They blamed me," Castro continued. "The senator needed someone to pay, and I was the easiest target. Evidence was fabricated, witnesses bribed, and suddenly, I was the mastermind behind the whole thing." He laughed bitterly. "I was sentenced to twenty years."
Carlos's fists clenched. Another innocent man paying for the sins of the powerful.
"Did you have a family?" Carlos asked.
Castro's jaw tightened. "A wife. She left me after the trial. Said she couldn't be associated with a 'kidnapper.'"
Carlos remained silent.
"But that's life in here," Castro said, shaking his head. "If you don't learn to adapt, this place will eat you alive."
Carlos exhaled, feeling a strange sense of understanding between them. They were both men abandoned by the world, betrayed by a system that favored the powerful.
"Stick with me," Castro said, rinsing his hands. "You don't have to fight every damn battle alone."
Carlos gave him a small nod. For the first time since entering prison, he didn't feel entirely alone.