Zhan's Pov.
The light doesn't change in here. Whether it's 2AM or 2PM, everything's the same shade of cold grey.
Max Unit. Maximum security, maximum silence, maximum hopelessness.
I don't know how Dre and I ended up here. One minute I was walking through Gate 12 at the airport, phone in hand, mid-laugh, and the next we were waking up in a transport van with cuffed wrists and no memory of the in-between. My tongue was dry. My jacket smelled like airport pretzels and sweat. Dre was groaning next to me. Confused, groggy, scared. Just like me.
They don't let you ask questions here.
The prison is a fortress carved into a mountain. High concrete walls laced with coiled razor wire. The windows aren't windows—they're slits. Like the place was designed for ghosts. We're only allowed out of our cells once a week for exactly two hours. The guards don't speak unless it's a command. There's no sunlight, just flickering fluorescent bulbs and the hum of surveillance with concrete walls and shattered reality.
That first night, I used my one call. Not to a lawyer, not even to my grandma.
I called Mia.
She picked up, bleary-eyed. "Zhan?"
I grinned like an idiot. "Guess what," I said, trying to sound breezy like I wasn't sitting in a cement coffin. "I'm eloping with Wang."
Mia blinked. "What?!"
I laughed. It echoed too loud in the steel-walled cell. I was shaking. "Yeah... we're running away, low-key."
She didn't laugh. "Zhan... what happened?"
"Wang's mom won't let us be," I said, finally honest. "We decided to run away."
The first year nearly broke Dre.
He stopped eating. His cheeks hollowed out, ribs showing even beneath the standard-issue uniform. He cried when he thought I wasn't watching, muffling the sound into his thin mattress. Some nights, he'd just sit on the floor, back against the cold wall, staring at nothing like his mind was slipping out through the cracks in the concrete.
But we made a pact—we were not going to die in this place. Not like this.
I started dragging him into workouts—pushups, sit-ups, burpees, even shadowboxing. We built routines with the tight space we had in our cells. Not to look good. But to stay alive. To stay sharp. Whoever did this to us... they weren't amateurs. This wasn't a mistake. It was precision. A message.
They took our freedom. But they wouldn't take our fire.
I doubt Wang even knows where I am. I imagine him pacing, looking for answers in places that don't exist. I hope he hasn't given up. But if I'm being honest, I stopped hoping for rescue a long time ago. I'm just glad Dre made me send the money to my family before everything went dark. Told them to sell the house, change their names, and disappear. He said, "If they're after us, they'll go after them next."
That thought keeps me up at night. But I sleep a little easier knowing they're gone, hidden.
And now... now we wait.
We've learned everything there is to learn in this cage: the guards' rotation, the timing of the lights, and how long it takes for backup to respond. We know when the cameras glitch when the generator kicks in during a blackout, and how long it takes before power fully restores.
We're not guessing anymore.
We're planning.
Because this place is not the end of our story.
It's just the beginning of theirs.
Dre got lucky.
It started with little things—a longer glance during cell checks, a smirk passed between cold metal bars, a graze of fingers when exchanging meal trays. I thought he was losing his mind at first. Then I saw the way the night guard lingered at his door. The way his flashlight always paused a second too long.
Flirting turned into whispers, whispers turned into favors, and favors turned into something... more.
I don't ask for details. I see the way Dre walks back into his cell sometimes, hair a little out of place, a look in his eye like he touched something warm in a world made of ice. Whatever they do in that dark closet of a maintenance room, it's the only time Dre looks human again.
The guard—his name is Ezra, I think—isn't cruel like the others. He doesn't bark commands or throw his weight around. He doesn't hit. That alone makes him dangerous. Because of kindness here? That's rare. And rare is always suspicious.
I tried asking him once, through the bars while he was doing rounds. I said, "Why are we here? Who put us in max? What did we do?"
He looked at me, something flickering behind his eyes. Pity, maybe. Or fear.
"All I know," he said, voice low, "is you're not supposed to be anywhere else. Orders came from way above. No trial. No records. Just isolation."
That was all he gave.
I wanted to shake him. Scream. But I didn't. Because even if Ezra doesn't have the answers, he might just be the key.
Because cracks are forming in the wall, and every crack—no matter how small—lets in light.
And sometimes, light is all you need to start a fire.
Ezra hasn't said anything more since that night. He avoids eye contact with me now like my questions burned his conscience too deep. But he still visits Dre. Every few nights, just after the final lockdown, he slips past the cameras and into Dre's cell like he's not walking into hell on borrowed time.
I've stopped judging.
If his affection keeps Dre anchored, then so be it. I just hope Ezra knows what he's playing with. Because Dre? He's not the same anymore. None of us are. We're quieter, and colder, watching everything like wolves waiting for a crack in the ice.
We know when the north corridor camera resets. We know which stairwell echo gives you four seconds to duck out of sight. We know where the guards smoke behind the infirmary, but we are not sure how long the lights take to reboot during a blackout. These aren't observations anymore—they're weapons.
Last week, Dre slipped me a folded scrap of toilet paper. Written with the ink from a pen he'd stolen weeks ago, it read:
"Ezra says generator backup lasts 38 seconds. South tunnel = weak spot. Vent grates unbolted. Almost time."
My pulse spiked. I flushed the note the second I memorized it.
Almost time.
Those two words ring louder than the guards' boots.
We don't talk much now. It's all in eye signals, foot taps, and the rhythm of silence. We don't dare plan out loud. There are ears everywhere, even in concrete. But we're ready. We've been counting down without knowing the number. We've been training for war while buried alive.
Whoever put us here thinks we're ghosts already.
But ghosts have unfinished business.
And when we get out, we won't be knocking. We'll be hunting.
The yard is a concrete box.
Three walls of raw grey, topped with spiraling wire and guard towers that stare down like vultures. The fourth wall is the prison itself—no life, just a black steel door that seals behind us with a hollow clang that always makes my chest tighten.
We only get this once a week—two hours under a sky we can't touch. It smells like rain even when it doesn't fall.
Dre and I always walk in circles. That's the unspoken rule. Never stop. Never cluster. Keep moving, stay alive. The guards lean on their rifles. Ezra's up in the tower today, pretending not to look our way. Dre doesn't even glance at him.
We talk about nonsense. It's safer that way.
"You remember that food truck in Shenzhen?" Dre says, shoving his hands into the sleeves of his thin prison sweater. "The one with the fried octopus balls?"
I let out a breath. "Yeah. You threw up in my lap right after."
He laughs, and it sounds like it hasn't been caged for months. "You're still mad about that?"
"Not mad. Just traumatized. I had to go to my audition smelling like squid vomit."
"Still got the part."
"Barely," I say, nudging his arm. "They made me keep the coat. Said it had character."
We keep walking. The clouds roll above us like waves we'll never surf again.
"I had this weird dream," Dre mutters after a beat. "We were out. Not out-out. Just... on a train. Sitting across from each other. I think we were going somewhere warm. You had a suitcase with stickers all over it."
"What kind of stickers?"
"Stupid ones. Like, 'Baby on Board' and a cartoon of a duck eating noodles."
I laugh, low and real. "That sounds like something I'd do."
He looks at me. "I think that means we're gonna make it."
I don't say anything, but I nod.
Because for now, this is what freedom looks like—two shadows pacing in a box, telling lies that feel like hope.
It takes us about an hour before we give in.
The walking stops. The pacing, the counting steps, the pretending we're not desperate for stillness—all of it halts as we find a quiet patch by the far wall, where the concrete is a little less cracked and the guards are less likely to care.
We lie down.
The sun is weak, filtered through layers of grime in the air, but it's real. Warm enough to sink into our skin, even if it never reaches our bones. I close my eyes. Dre exhales like he's been holding his breath for a year.
"God," he mutters. "I forgot what this felt like."
"I forgot what not being cold felt like."
A beat of silence stretches. No alarms. No footsteps. Just the occasional distant murmur, and the dry wind brushing over our uniforms.
"Tell me about her again," Dre says softly, eyes closed.
I don't ask who. He means grandma.
I smile faintly. "She had this look she gave me when she knew I was lying. Chin tilted, one eyebrow up, like a detective in some old black-and-white movie. Drove me insane. But she was right. Every time."
"You miss her?"
I nod slowly. "I don't think she'd recognize me now. I wouldn't blame her."
Dre hums, then says, "I dated this guy in college. Luca. He was a painter. Drove this busted scooter like it was a Ferrari. Always smelled like turpentine and coffee. The first person who ever made me believe in slow mornings."
"What happened?"
"He moved to Spain. Asked me to come with him. I said no." He sighs. "Sometimes I wonder if I'd be sipping wine by the ocean right now if I'd said yes."
We go quiet. The sun kisses our faces like it's sorry it took so long.
Time slips fast when you're pretending to be free. Too fast.
Soon, the buzz of the door cracks the silence like a warning shot. We don't move at first. We savor it—our little rebellion.
And then we get up, brush the dust off our backs, and file back inside.
One more week until we breathe again.
I don't know how long we'd been back in our cells. Maybe a few hours. Maybe less. Time has no shape in here—it stretches and contracts like a breath held underwater. I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the warmth of the sun in my head like a lullaby.
Then the alarm started.
A low, wailing siren that built and built until it drowned out everything. Not the usual buzz for headcount or meal delivery. This one was different—sharp. Urgent. Like something had gone very, very wrong.
I shot upright. Dre was already at the bars, gripping the cold metal like it could tell him something.
Then came the footsteps.
Dozens. Maybe more. Boots slamming against concrete, rushing past the corridor like a wave. Guards yelling—short, clipped orders we couldn't make out. The ground vibrated beneath us like the prison itself was breathing hard.
"What the hell is going on?" I whispered.
Dre didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the far end of the hall, where a shadow moved against the emergency lights. Red strobes had kicked in now, painting the hallway in pulses of blood.
Another alarm started—this one closer, harsher. A different tone. Emergency lockdown.
Then the lights cut out.
Darkness swallowed the block.
Generators hummed to life within seconds, but I counted.
1... 2... 3... 4...
Thirty-eight seconds.
The number from the note.
The number that mattered.
Dre turned slowly to look at me, face lit in red, something alive in his eyes that hadn't been there since we got here.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
Whatever was happening—it wasn't part of the routine. It wasn't a rehearsal.
And maybe, just maybe... it was the beginning of our way out.
The light came back on.
Just like that.
Bright, clinical fluorescence flooded the hallway, killing the moment, the tension, and the breath we'd been holding like it meant something. The alarms cut out one by one, and the footsteps—the rush of chaos—faded until only the hum of the generator remained, like an embarrassed apology.
We stood in our cells, still as statues, waiting for something else.
But then the clatter of dinner trays echoed down the corridor.
Just dinner.
Dre turned, his face blank. I could almost hear the hope snapping in his chest like a frayed wire.
"What happened, Ezra?" Dre asked when the guard finally approached with our food.
Ezra didn't look rushed. If anything, he looked annoyingly calm. "I turned off the wrong light," he said simply, handing Dre a tray through the slot. "Just to experiment."
He walked to my cell his voice low. "It wasn't what I was expecting."
"Okay," I muttered, accepting my tray. "Thanks."
Ezra moved on, but lingered just a little longer by Dre's door, something unspoken passing between them. He didn't touch Dre, but the air thickened with whatever they weren't saying.
Then he was gone, footsteps fading again into the hum of the prison.
I laid back down, tray untouched, staring at the ceiling.
Dre's cell used to be two corridors away. Ezra made sure he was moved—put bedbugs in his old mattress to force the transfer. We all knew it. Dre didn't even complain. Now, he's right across from me.
We've been patient. We've been watching.
But patience tastes like metal in my mouth now.
I close my eyes and think: maybe a miracle would help.
Maybe the whole place should just burn down.
And maybe next time the lights go out, they won't come back on.
I don't know what did it.
Maybe the fake alarm.
Maybe the red lights.
Maybe the way hope flickered for just one second—just long enough to remind me how much we've lost.
But when the hallway went quiet again and the shadows settled back into their usual corners, I felt something shift in me. A soft breaking.
Curling up with the tray still untouched on the floor. My arms folded around myself like they could pretend to be someone else's. Someone real. Someone warm.
That's when I thought of Wang.
I hadn't in so long.
He used to hold me like this—arms strong, chin resting on my shoulder like he needed me more than I needed him. He never talked much in those moments. Just held me. Just existed beside me in that quiet, steady way he had.
And now, out of nowhere, the memory crashed into me with full weight. I could feel the ghost of him. I could hear him laugh. I could see the dumb way his nose scrunched when he smiled.
I buried my face in the crook of my arm and let it come undone.
The sobs ripped out of me, raw and hot, punching through my chest like they'd been waiting all year for a crack. I shook, silent at first, then not. I didn't care who heard. Not tonight.
All I wanted was him.
Not escape.
Not revenge.
Not even freedom.
Just Wang. Just one hug. Just one second where I wasn't alone in this cement coffin.
But the only arms around me were my own.
And they weren't enough.