Zhan's Pov.
The months slipped through my fingers like dust. Days lost their names. Only the yard time marked the weeks. One hour. Then two.
Ezra stopped coming.
No warning, no goodbye. Just gone.
At first, I thought he was sick. Then reassigned. Then maybe—maybe—he'd gotten caught. But that hope faded quickly. This place doesn't care enough to remove you for breaking the rules. You have to break.
The new night guard, Officer Ji, was the opposite of Ezra. Cold. Impatient. He moved like he was angry at the floor for existing, and when he made eye contact, it was like staring into the barrel of a rusted gun—one that wouldn't miss.
He didn't answer questions. Not even simple ones like, "Is it Tuesday?" or "Can I have water?" He would just stare, chew his gum louder, and move on.
Dre took it harder than I thought he would.
He didn't talk. Didn't crack jokes. Didn't even do his half-hearted stretches anymore. The light in his eyes—the one I clung to when mine flickered—dimmed.
I didn't push him.
How could I?
Ezra had been his escape, in the smallest, most human way. The few minutes of warmth in a world built out of concrete and silence. I saw what they shared—softness, an understanding. Something carved from nothing. I never judged it. I respected it.
Now that Ezra was gone, it was like someone pulled the last thread keeping Dre together.
Sometimes, I watched him from my bunk. His face was blank, his eyes unfocused. But once or twice, I caught him mouthing something. Words I couldn't hear. A prayer, maybe. Or a name.
I didn't ask.
We all mourn differently in this place. Even the living.
And so, we survived the quiet together. Alone.
The snow came without warning.
Thick, white silence blanketed the mountain, and suddenly, everything was cold in a new way—inside your bones, inside your breath. The kind of cold that made metal bite your skin and your lungs ache with every inhale. The yard was a slab of frozen ground, and our breath rose like ghosts in the air.
We walked slower. Talked less. Even Dre barely muttered.
But during those yard hours—our two hours of light and pretending we were still people—something new stirred.
Rumors.
Soft, hopeful ones that didn't belong here.
"They brought doctors," someone whispered, huddled in a small group near the fence. "Real ones. With medicine."
"No one's been in that infirmary in four years," another voice replied, half-skeptical, half-hungry. "You know why. Guards said Max inmates killed the last ones."
I stood near the wall, not speaking. Just listening.
They were right. We hadn't had a real doctor in years. If you were bleeding, they'd wrap a shirt around you and tell you to sleep it off. If your ribs cracked, well, lucky you for having another twenty-three. But this—doctors? Actual checkups?
It felt like fiction.
Still, I found myself thinking about it all night. The way you think about food when you're starving.
I wondered what they'd say if they actually saw us. The state of our bodies. The cold rot in our joints. The weight we'd lost and the sleep we'd never found again.
Maybe I'd ask for something. Maybe just one thing.
Sleeping aid medication.
Something to make the nights blur the way the years already had. To slow the memories, numb the thoughts, and quiet the dreams.
Dre didn't say much that night. He just curled into his bunk and faced the wall, his shoulders twitching now and then like he was shaking something off.
Outside, the snow kept falling—soft, unbothered, like it didn't know we were dying slowly under it.
The walk back from the yard was slower than usual. My feet were numb, my breath thick in the air, and the wind had turned cruel—slapping every inch of exposed skin. Dre walked beside me, but he hadn't said a word. Not since last week.
We stepped into the corridor, lights flickering above us, our usual shuffle toward isolation— immediately we entered our cell.
The alarm shattered the quiet.
A high, piercing shriek ricocheted off the concrete walls like a scream stuck in metal. My spine straightened instantly, heart slammed against my ribs.
Boots. Heavy. Dozens of them.
The sound of hooves, almost—not literal, but so thunderous it felt like a stampede of bulls crashing down the corridor. Shadows moved fast past the cell windows. Then—
BANG.
A wooden baton scraped violently across our metal door—loud enough to make my ears ring and jolt the air out of my chest. It passed to the next door. And the next. More scraping. More batons dragged against steel, a sick rhythm meant to strike fear into what was already broken.
"Back to the wall!" a voice barked.
Dre and I scrambled automatically. You don't think. You just move.
Then came the sound of bodies—armed men in full riot gear pacing back and forth. Their rifles were up. Visors down. They weren't here to question. They were here to control.
And then it happened.
CLANG.
The door opposite mine, Dre's cell, burst open. A body was thrown in, hard. I heard the thud of impact—flesh on concrete.
Then the door slammed shut again.
Silence returned just as quickly as the chaos arrived.
I couldn't see clearly—just a shadow sprawled across the cell floor. Dre stood frozen above him, unmoving, staring like he'd seen a ghost.
I pressed against my door, eyes straining across the gap.
Was he bleeding?
Was he breathing?
And then the new prisoner stirred—groaning softly, curling in on himself, clutching his side.
Something about him was familiar. The build. The shape of his jaw when he lifted his head for a second under the flickering light.
But it wasn't until Dre whispered—just one word—that the cold in my stomach turned to ice.
Zhan.
At first, I didn't believe it. My name hung in the air like an echo from a different life, spoken so softly from Dre's lips that it almost didn't register.
But the man on the floor wasn't me.
He groaned again, turning his face just enough for the light to catch it—and my heart slammed into my ribs like it was trying to break free from my chest.
Ezra.
His face was swollen, bruises blooming dark purple across his cheek and jaw. His lip was split, and dried blood clung to his temple. His uniform was torn in places, streaked with snow and mud, and something darker.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
He was security.
He was safe.
He was—
"What the hell...?" Dre breathed, dropping to his knees beside him.
Ezra blinked sluggishly, trying to focus, then winced, gripping his side. His fingers came away wet with blood.
"Ezra..." I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.
He didn't respond to his name at first. He looked disoriented—confused about where he was, about why the walls were gray and the floor was so cold.
"What did they do to you?" Dre asked, voice low and shaking. He reached out but paused, afraid to hurt him more.
Ezra coughed, and I saw a streak of red hit the floor.
"W-what... what day is it?" he rasped.
"Why are you in here?" I asked, unable to stop myself.
His eyes finally landed on mine across the corridor, bloodshot and distant. He didn't answer. He just shook his head.
The silence between us screamed louder than the alarm ever did.
And for the first time in months, Dre's hands trembled—not from cold, but from fear.
Something had gone very, very wrong.
And Ezra being thrown in here meant only one thing:
Whatever game was being played—
It had changed.
Dre knelt by Ezra, hands hovering, unsure where to touch, afraid to cause more pain. The cell was dim—only the corridor light cut through the bars and spilled onto the bruised figure curled on the cold cement floor. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, every inhale a wince.
Then, in a voice so raw it scraped the air, Ezra finally rasped, "I'm sorry..."
Dre swallowed, voice tight. "Sorry for what?"
Ezra blinked slowly, eyes glassy with pain. "They... caught me. CCTV. I didn't know it was there. Above the west junction—electric room." His voice cracked. "The night I tested the lights."
My heart dropped. He had done it. For us. For hope.
"They thought I was trying to help you escape," he said, coughing, and the sound was wet and awful. "They didn't ask questions. Just dragged me in. No hearing. No defense. No explanation."
Dre's fists clenched.
Ezra kept going. "They've had me since then. Locked in solitary. No light. No food. No time. Just... fists. Boots." His body trembled. "They wanted me to confess to everything—escape plan, conspiracy, smuggling."
"And you didn't?" Dre whispered, already knowing the answer.
Ezra looked up at him, eyes brimming with shame. "I held out. Weeks. Maybe months—I don't know anymore. But... the last few days, I broke. I said whatever they wanted me to say. I just wanted it to stop."
Dre's jaw clenched, but he didn't speak. He just nodded, silent, wounded.
I watched as Dre gently pulled Ezra into his arms, resting his back against the wall. Ezra didn't resist. He was too broken to.
But there, in that brutal silence, I saw something strange between them—something sacred.
Ezra had fallen from grace, but Dre didn't let go.
Neither of us would. Not now. Not after this.
Because whatever truth was buried in this mountain prison... it was starting to surface. And it was bleeding.
"He needs to see a doctor!" Dre's voice cracked the silence like thunder, echoing off the walls, ragged with panic. He wasn't screaming out of anger—he was screaming out of desperation. Holding Ezra close, trying to steady him, to warm him, to will him to stay awake.
"Help!" he shouted again, voice breaking. "He's bleeding! He needs help!"
I stood against my bars, fists clenched, throat dry, useless. The air outside the cells remained still, until finally—heavy boots approached.
A single guard stopped in front of Dre's cell. I recognized him—Wen Su. Usually indifferent, usually quiet. But today, his face was stone.
"Please," Dre begged. "Just painkillers. Anything. He's fading."
Wen Su stared. Then reached for his radio.
But before he could speak, another figure appeared. Sharp shoulders. Cold eyes. Gray coat. The silence shifted like the temperature dropped ten degrees.
The warden.
He stepped up beside Wen Su, hands behind his back like this was a casual walk through a museum and not a cellblock lined with bleeding men and broken people. He glanced down at Ezra with a face like concrete.
"He deserves it," the warden said flatly. "Sabotage. Treason. Interference with a maximum-security unit. We had every right to kill him."
Dre's body was shaking now—not from fear, but fury.
"You can't just—just let him die in here," he growled, eyes red, jaw clenched. "Please. I'm begging you. Just give him something for the pain."
The warden tilted his head. "He made his choice. Let him die in his lover's arms."
Dre froze.
The silence stretched long and violent.
Then—slowly—Ezra let out a wheezing cough, and Dre tightened his hold around him.
"Please," Dre whispered this time, his voice a soft echo of before. "Just some painkillers. Please."
Wen Su looked between the two men—Ezra bruised and crumbling, Dre on the edge of breaking.
Something shifted in the guard's face.
He said nothing, but after a second, he turned and walked away, leaving the warden behind.
The warden gave Dre one final cold stare, then followed.
The metal doors groaned shut behind them.
And we were alone again—with the snow outside, the cold seeping in, and Ezra slipping away inch by inch in Dre's arms.
Still, Dre didn't stop whispering to him.
"Stay with me... you're not dying like this... I won't let you."
Dre moved like a man possessed.
The moment the cell door clanged shut and footsteps faded, he shifted from despair to action. His eyes were glassy, jaw set tight, his body trembling not from fear, but urgency. Ezra let out another broken groan, his eyes fluttering open, barely conscious.
"Hang in there," Dre whispered.
Then he was on his feet.
He yanked off his prison sweater first—thin, faded from years of bleach and cold water—and tossed it aside. Underneath, he wore a worn grey shirt. He used it to dab gently at the blood smearing Ezra's forehead, cheek, and chin. The fabric turned red fast, soaked, and useless, so Dre ripped a cleaner edge from the shirt and kept going.
He paused when he reached Ezra's side, where the bleeding was worst. A gash ran across his ribs—angry, open. Dre hesitated for just a second, then picked a clean underwear from beneath his pillow, folding it tight and pressing it against the wound. Ezra flinched, a sharp inhale through clenched teeth, but he didn't push him away.
Dre worked fast—tying the makeshift bandage with trembling hands.
Then he pulled off the rest of his prison clothes—trousers, socks, everything but his boxers, and a thin gray shirt that clung to his frame. Cold air sliced through the cell, but Dre didn't flinch.
"I can't let you freeze," he muttered, pulling Ezra gently upright and stripping him naked, and slipping the dry shirt over his head, then the trousers. He winced when Ezra groaned but moved delicately, careful not to jostle him more than necessary.
I watched from across the corridor, helpless but wide-eyed.
Without a word, I tugged my trousers free through the bars and tossed them toward Dre's cell. They landed inches from him.
Dre looked up at me—his eyes dark with gratitude and exhaustion—then nodded and pulled them on quickly. The cold was already making him shiver, but he didn't complain. Instead, he curled back around Ezra, wrapping himself tightly around him like a cocoon, arms shielding him, breath warming his neck.
Ezra blinked up at him.
"You're stupid," he murmured hoarsely.
Dre smiled, lips trembling. "Yeah," he whispered. "But I'm your stupid."
And just like that, in a place built from stone and silence, a little warmth returned. Enough for one more night. Enough, maybe, to keep him alive.
For some bizarre reason, I couldn't sleep.
The cold had sunk deep into my bones despite the two thin blankets we were allowed. But it wasn't the temperature that kept me awake—it was something else. A tightness in my chest. A feeling I couldn't shake. Like something was waiting just outside the edge of my hearing.
Dre's arms still wrapped around Ezra, who hadn't stirred in over an hour. His breathing was shallow, his face pale in the moonlight that filtered faintly through the narrow slits high above.
And then—
Footsteps.
Soft ones.
Not the heavy clomp of boots. Not the stomp of authority. These were quieter. Measured. Almost... cautious.
I sat up straight as the faint shape of Wen Su appeared, his face partially obscured by shadow, but unmistakable in that stiff walk and lowered gaze.
He didn't say a word.
He moved silently to Dre's cell and, with a swift glance over his shoulder, reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a bundle—two thick sweaters, a pair of trousers, and a heavy blanket that looked new, or at least clean.
He pushed them through the food slot gently.
Dre didn't move at first. He was barely awake. But then his eyes flickered up and locked with Wen Su's. There was no gratitude in his face yet, just confusion. Caution.
Wen Su didn't explain. Didn't wait for thanks.
He turned and walked away, his boots whispering over the concrete like he'd never been there at all.
But I saw it.
That small, flickering kindness in a place where cruelty was currency.
As Dre pulled the blanket closer around Ezra's trembling body, something thudded softly against the floor—then rolled.
His breath caught. He looked down.
A small medkit.
A packet of sealed food.
Two bottles of water.
I saw his eyes widen just a fraction before urgency took over. He didn't waste a second. Gently but firmly, he shook Ezra awake.
"Hey," he whispered, "Ez, wake up. You need to eat."
Ezra groaned, lashes fluttering, but this time there was strength—faint, flickering, but there. Dre helped him sit up slowly, propping him against the cold wall and unscrewing the bottle cap.
"Small sips," he said.
Ezra drank, weakly but gratefully, his fingers curling around the bottle like it was salvation.
Dre tore open the food packet next, feeding him small pieces by hand—soft bread, a protein bar, something warm tucked in foil that steamed faintly in the cold. Ezra didn't speak, but his eyes locked on Dre's like he couldn't believe he was alive like every bite brought him back to a body he wasn't sure he could trust.
Then came the medkit.
Dre's hands weren't steady, but he managed. He cleaned the gash at Ezra's side, face tense with every pained breath Ezra took. He wrapped the wound tight, layered gauze, and used what antiseptic he could. He even found a small antibiotic packet, tore it open, with painkillers, and helped Ezra swallow it with the rest of the water.
He dressed him carefully after that—pulled the sweater over Ezra's bony shoulders, then tugged on the extra trousers, his hands moving fast and sure like he'd done it a hundred times.
Then Dre pulled the second sweater onto himself, climbed into the metal-framed bed, and tucked the two of them under both blankets. Ezra's head rested on Dre's shoulder, their legs curled together, the barest steam of warmth rising between them like a fragile thread keeping them tethered to life.
And across the corridor, I watched it all.
Dre's eyes met mine once.
Not a single word passed between us.
But the nod said everything.
Not all the guards were monsters.
Not all the prisoners were broken.
And not all hope was lost in this place.
For now, that was enough.
For now, that was everything.
A week crawled by, dragging its feet through frozen halls and silent nights.
Ezra was healing—slowly, but unmistakably. The bruises faded from black to sickly yellow, and the cut at his side, though still raw, had stopped bleeding. Su had come in twice, never saying a word, just dropping medication through the slot. A ghost in uniform. For that, we were grateful. There were no questions, no bargains, no threats. Just mercy, quiet, and rare.
Then came Yard Day.
Our one breath of sky per week. Two hours of movement under the pale, cloud-laced sun.
We were ushered out into the yard like livestock, stiff from cold and confinement. The wind sliced through our bones, but we walked anyway, our bodies remembering freedom even if our minds barely could.
Ezra was still weak, but Dre supported him—an arm slung around his back, guiding him like something precious. I trailed a few feet behind, letting them move together, eyes scanning every corner of the snow-dusted yard.
The other inmates were subdued today. Quiet muttering, eyes to the ground. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the way the guards loomed from the tower with new rifles. Maybe everyone could feel the shift coming—like something deep in the earth was starting to stir.
We walked to the far end of the yard, to the old, crumbling bench near the back wall. Dre helped Ezra sit, wrapping his coat tighter around him.
"I don't care what anyone says," Dre muttered, lowering beside him. "The sun is fake. I can barely feel it."
Ezra chuckled softly, his voice still gravel, but warmer now. "Fake sun in a fake yard for fake freedom."
I smirked and dropped onto the frozen bench across from them. "At least the snow's real. You know how long it's been since I felt fresh air?"
Ezra tilted his head back, eyes closed. "Smells like frostbite and stale dreams."
We laughed—a tired sound, but real.
Then Dre leaned in. His voice dropped.
"We need to start making plans," he said. "We can't wait forever."
I glanced toward the guards. One was smoking, the other distracted. Still—any wrong movement and we were back in chains.
"What're you thinking?" I asked under my breath, getting up.
"Not here," Dre replied. "Not yet. Just know I've been watching the patterns. Su might help if we ask right? But we have to be quiet. Careful."
I nodded once, then looked up at the sky.
Clouds moved fast like they were trying to get away from something.
I knew how they felt.
This place had swallowed people whole. But we weren't staying.
We were beginning to understand the system.
And now—we had reason to fight. To leave.
To burn the whole lie down, if we had to.
The snow crunched beneath me, cold against my spine, but I didn't care. We needed to build resistance, Dre said—get used to the cold, to be alert in discomfort. I didn't argue. It was the first time in months we'd been outside together like this, stretched out like boys who belonged to a world that still made sense.
Ezra was resting back against Dre's chest, half-asleep, breathing easier now. I lay beside them, arms crossed under my head, letting the gray sky blur into the corners of my vision.
We talked about dumb things. Nothing sharp, nothing painful. Just softness. I told them about the time I accidentally called a teacher "Mom" in high school and ran out of class to avoid humiliation. Dre confessed he once fell asleep in a bathtub after drinking too much-iced coffee and woke up pruned and late for a date.
I laughed—harder than I had in years. My chest hurt from it.
Then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Quick. Heavy. Off-rhythm.
I opened my eyes slowly—still laughing—and the world split.
A shadow lunged into view.
No words.
Just a glint of metal—brief, like a cruel star.
Then fire across my side.
Not loud. Not violent.
Just... sudden.
My body jerked, instinct screaming before my mind caught up. A strange heat spread across my ribs, sharp and wet. I gasped and grabbed my side, feeling warm liquid soak through my shirt.
I rolled away, heart hammering, vision spinning.
Dre was on his feet instantly, grabbing the attacker. Ezra stumbled up, swaying, lips parting in shock. The man who stabbed me—a prisoner I didn't recognize, face covered partially with a scarf.
"Wang says hi," the man spat, and my blood turned to ice.
I heard it through the pain—through the burn still blooming across my side. Heard it like a message carved into my skin.
I stiffened, eyes flying to Dre, who had the guy pinned to the ground. Dre's face twisted in disbelief, and then rage.
"What did you just say?" he growled, tightening his grip.
The man grinned, teeth stained and eyes glinting like fire licking the edge of sanity. "Wang says hi."
Something in Dre snapped.
"Sorry, Ezra," he muttered, then slammed his fist directly into the man's wound—an old injury, poorly maintained. The guy screamed, pain tearing through him like a storm.
Blood soaked through his shirt.
Ezra flinched where he sat, gripping his ribs, but said nothing.
Then Dre did something I didn't expect.
He yanked the knife from the attacker's hand—still slick with my blood—and without hesitation, turned it on himself.
"No!" I croaked, reaching for him.
But it was too late.
He drove the blade into his shoulder with a guttural cry, just enough to tear flesh. Blood gushed immediately.
The attacker stared, wide-eyed, as Dre shoved him hard. "Run!" he hissed, loud enough to carry.
And he did.
The prisoner scrambled up and bolted, disappearing around the far end of the yard just as a wave of shouting and boots thundered toward us.
Two guards arrived, rifles raised, eyes flicking between the blood, the bodies, the panic.
"What happened here?!" one barked.
"We were stabbed!" Dre screamed, holding his bleeding shoulder, crumpling beside me. "He came out of nowhere—he stabbed us and ran!"
I groaned, curling over my side, clutching the wound that still wept down my stomach.
Within seconds, more guards swarmed us. The yard emptied in a flurry of sirens and shouts.
Then blackness kissed the edge of my vision.
The last thing I felt was the crunch of boots, and the icy sting of the snow turning red beneath me.
And Dre's hand on mine.
We were finally going to the infirmary.
It wasn't how we planned it—but we were inside.