The next few weeks were a brutal lesson in survival. Carlos had already learned that prison was a world of its own, but now, under Castro's guidance, he began to understand the rules.
The first lesson? Strength wasn't just about fists—it was about knowing when to use them.
---
Lesson One: Pick Your Battles
Carlos and Castro were in the yard, standing near the rusted fence where the guards barely paid attention. The sun was unforgiving, beating down on them as Castro casually peeled an orange with a plastic knife.
"You see that guy over there?" Castro nodded toward a tall, muscular inmate covered in tattoos, sitting on a bench, surrounded by a small group.
Carlos followed his gaze. "Yeah?"
"That's Razor," Castro said, taking a bite of his orange. "He runs the smuggling business in here—phones, cigarettes, even some 'special requests' if you've got the right connections. He's got most of the guards in his pocket."
Carlos frowned. "So, what does that have to do with me?"
Castro smirked. "A week ago, you got into a fight with one of his men. You think he's forgotten?"
Carlos exhaled sharply. He hadn't considered that.
"He hasn't made a move yet," Castro continued, "which means he's waiting. Maybe he's planning something, maybe he's just watching. Either way, you don't start a war you can't win."
Carlos clenched his jaw. "So what? I just let them think I'm weak?"
Castro chuckled. "Nah, kid. You let them think you're not worth the trouble."
Carlos didn't like it, but he understood. If he wanted to make it through five years, he had to be smart.
---
Lesson Two: The Art of Trade
One evening, after another exhausting shift in the kitchen, Castro led Carlos toward the laundry room.
"What are we doing here?" Carlos asked, rubbing his sore shoulder.
"You're about to learn how things actually work in here," Castro said, stepping inside.
The room was filled with steam, the scent of detergent mixing with sweat and mildew. Several inmates were working, folding sheets and washing uniforms, but one man stood out.
A thin, wiry guy with sharp eyes and a permanent smirk—Martin, the laundry man.
"Castro," Martin greeted, folding a fresh towel. "What can I do for you?"
"I need some aspirin and a pack of smokes," Castro said, nodding toward Carlos. "And the kid needs a new pair of shoes. His are falling apart."
Martin glanced at Carlos's sneakers—worn, the soles barely holding together.
"You know the rules, Castro," Martin said, shaking his head. "Nothing's free."
Castro leaned on the table. "We just cleaned the damn toilets for two weeks. You're telling me that's worth nothing?"
Martin sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. But next time, I need something in return." He disappeared into the back, returning a moment later with a bottle of aspirin, a pack of cheap cigarettes, and a pair of barely-used sneakers.
Carlos took the shoes, feeling the weight of the exchange. Everything in prison had a price. Even the smallest favors could mean the difference between surviving and suffering.
---
Lesson Three: Respect is Everything
A few days later, Carlos was eating in the cafeteria when a tray was slammed down in front of him.
Razor.
The towering inmate leaned forward, his dark eyes full of unspoken threats. "Heard you've been learning the ropes," Razor said, voice low. "Making friends."
Carlos kept his face neutral. "Just getting by."
Razor smirked. "That's good. But don't forget—this place has a hierarchy. And you? You're at the bottom."
Carlos didn't flinch. "For now."
Razor let out a slow chuckle. A dangerous sound.
"You've got guts," he admitted. "Most new guys get eaten alive in here. But guts won't save you."
Carlos didn't respond. He knew better than to provoke a man like Razor.
After a long silence, Razor stood up. "Keep your head down, rich boy. And stay out of my way."
As he walked off, Castro sat down beside Carlos, shaking his head.
"You're lucky," Castro muttered. "That was his version of a warning. Next time, he might not be so friendly."
Carlos exhaled. "Noted."
Castro chuckled. "You'll do fine, kid. Just remember—survival isn't about being the toughest. It's about being the smartest."
Carlos nodded, taking it all in. Prison had its own rules, its own order. And now, thanks to Castro, he had a fighting chance.
---
Today he was told he had a visitor,
Carlos sat in the cold, dimly lit visitor's room, hands cuffed to the table. It had been months since he had seen anyone or any familiar face, and he wasn't sure what to expect.
The heavy metal door groaned open, and a guard led in Lucas.
Carlos barely recognized his best friend—Lucas had lost weight, dark circles sat beneath his eyes, and his usually carefree demeanor had been replaced with something more serious.
"Carlos," Lucas exhaled, relief washing over him as he sat across from him. "Damn, man. I've been looking for you everywhere."
Carlos let out a bitter chuckle. "Well, you finally found me."
Lucas shook his head. "You don't get it. It's been five months, Carlos. Five months, and I had no idea where the hell you were."
Carlos frowned. "What do you mean?"
Lucas leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Your father and that bastard minister kept your arrest a secret. They told the world that you left for Africa to negotiate a business project. No one questioned it—not the media, not the board, not even your so-called friends."
Carlos's jaw tightened. So, his father had truly erased him from the world.
Lucas continued. "I only started digging because things weren't adding up. Your phone was disconnected, your accounts frozen—hell, even our apartment was cleaned out. It was like you never existed."
Carlos let that sink in. So that was why no one had come for him. His father didn't just disown him—he erased him.
Lucas clenched his fists. "It took me months to track you down. I had to pay off the right people just to get your name on a damn prison list."
Carlos exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. "So, the world thinks I'm off making business deals, huh?"
Lucas nodded. "Yeah. But now that I've found you, I can—"
Carlos cut him off. "Forget about me for now." His voice was firm. "I need you to find my investigator."
Lucas blinked. "Your investigator?"
"Yes. He came to see me a while back. He had information about my mother, but visiting time was cut short before we could talk. I need you to find him and get whatever information he has."
Lucas hesitated. "Carlos, are you sure that's your priority right now? Shouldn't we be working on getting you out of here?"
Carlos's gaze hardened. Five months in prison had changed him—he wasn't the same man Lucas once knew.
"I'll get out of here when it's time," Carlos said. "Right now, I need answers."
Lucas exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Fine. I'll find him. But Carlos… what about Cee, should I tell her about this?"
Carlos stilled. His heart clenched at just hearing her name. "No don't, how is she?"
Lucas sighed. "I haven't had time to look for her. But from what I know, she's fine. No one knows about your relationship, and I wasn't about to tell anyone."
Carlos nodded, staring at the table. A part of him wanted to ask Lucas to find her too—to check on her, to see if she had moved on. But another part of him couldn't bear to know.
If she was happy without him, would he be able to accept it?
Lucas studied him for a moment, then leaned back. "I'll find your investigator. But you need to promise me one thing."
Carlos met his gaze.
"Stay alive in here," Lucas said seriously. "Whatever's going on with your father, the minister, and this whole setup—don't let them break you."
Carlos smirked faintly. "They'll have to do worse than this to break me."
Lucas shook his head. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."
The guard stepped forward, signaling that their time was up. Lucas stood, giving Carlos one last look.
"I'll be back," he promised.
Carlos watched as he walked away. For the first time in five months, he felt a sliver of hope.
Now, all he had to do was wait.