Chapter 153
Adrian Kael.
成交73%日
I pull myself out of the whirlpool of thoughts and return to the cell, Shortsteps do nothing to ease the knot tightening in my chest, I pace back and forth, trying to contain the tremor climbing from my stomach to my throat.
My breathing fractures. Every sound is a warning: the creak of metal bars distant step, the rustle of a uniform. Everything reminds me why
I’m here.
Something might happen today.
I might lose my virginity.
The thought drags through my mind like a shadow that refuses to disappear. I try to push it away, but it returns sharper, insistent. I sit, stand, place my hands against the wall, trying to calm the anxiety and fear.
I close my eyes, searching for a safe point inside myself.
I don’t find one.
My mouth dries, and my stomach twists.
I think of home–the chair in my room, the paused game on my monitor, and the shelf full of books.
Instead, I saw blood. I saw someone dead.
And now I’m here, reduced to waiting and terror.
Why me?
Why does everything fall apart around me?
A noise at the bars drags me from the daze. I jump to my feet and try to see between the metal. The guard who always shadows that monster
appears.
My heart sprints. For a moment, I think it’s him–that the worst night of my life has just begun here.
The guard approaches slowly, expression deep and unreadable–maybe pity maybe boredom. He speaks low, like sharing a joke I’m not meant
to laugh at.
“Just so you know, rookie–the boss got sent to solitary. He’s not coming to the cell tonight.”
The words hit me like burning rain. Relief floods so intensely my legs nearly give out. I smile without meaning to; my mouth opens involuntarily. It lasts only a second. The guard notices and lets out a dry laugh.
‘Don’t celebrate too much. One way or another, he’ll get to you.”
He shuts the bars. The sound seals something I can’t name. I’m alone again, but different–with the brief illusion of safety and the certainty
that luck is temporary.
1/4
09:25 Mon, Feb 9.
Chapter 153
I walk to the bunk slowly, my body heavy as if every muscle has been draged. I sit and run my hands over my face, fingers slipping across damp cheeks.
It’s a huge relief.
73%0
Bot awareness returns in cold waves: I won’t always be protected. At any moment, it could all collapse again. Like the guard said–sooner or
later, I’ll be devoured.
Why does everything go wrong for me?
If I hadn’t seen it… If I hadn’t gone there… if-
The “ifs” haunt me like stubborn ghosts.
I lie down, staring at the cracked ceiling. The cold seeps into my bones, shrinking any hope. I close my eyes and try counting seconds, an old technique to keep myself from spiraling.
It doesn’t work.
Instead, my mind runs to small memories: the taste of coffee at my father’s house, sunlight spilling through a window, a friend’s laughter. Simple things that now feel like luxury.
Anger boils with fear.
I hate that monster.
I hate this helplessness.
I hate a world that lets men like him exist.
When I think of him, I feel the veins in my neck pulse.
It isn’t only fear. It’s fierce indignation.
I want to scream, tear something from my chest so the sound could travel far enough to reach someone who could take me out of here. But screaming would only bring attention–or mockery.
Loneliness weighs differently now–not just silence, but hollow surveillance. I try not to think, because when I think, my body snaps to alert
and anxiety surges.
I breathe slowly and controlled, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, like in an old exercise. Count to four, hold, release. Repeat until the shaking fades from my hands.
For a moment, I allow myself a thought–a plan, an escape, anything that gives me air. But ideas are weak; the walls of the cell close tight around possibility.
I try organizing practical thoughts: watching routines, noting times, and observing who passes distracted. It isn’t much, but it’s a thread of control. A thin one, but it exists.
I don’t fall asleep out of peace, but exhaustion. My body collapses before my mind; my eyes grow heavy, and breathing slows. Dreams arrive in broken flashes, filled with hallways and doors that always slam shut.
2/4
09:25 Mon, Feb 9 1
Chapter 153
Twake wawral time in the night, every end dragging me back to aware
lewe pushing the late sleep mean
When 1 finally truly rest, it feels stolen Hot Barmed, just necessary.
LI
The lang of the hars jolts me out of my stupor. I open my eyes with a star, heart pounding. For a second, I think it’s him that he’s hack to
finish what I fear the mael.
But no. It’s only a guard walking through the corridor with bored indifference. The hars grind open and shut again, as if he moved them est of habit and forgot why. He acts like I don’t exist–just another object in the hell.
I release a heavy breath; relief sweeps through me, but it leaves an even deeper exhaustion behind. I rub my face, trying to shake off the weight of a night that barely counted as sleep. My eyes burn, and my body aches as if I’d been fighting–and in a way, I had
1 stand and walk toward the bars, but my gaze lands on the cell around me instead.
The Executor’s cell.
I never noticed the details before. Now I see the small luxuries: a thicker mattress, a blanket without holes, and a makeshift shelf with items forbidden anywhere else.
Marks of someone who truly rules here.
That bastard thinks he’s king, and clearly everyone helps feed the illusion. Just remembering him–his forced touch, his mouth invading mine- nausea rises in my throat.
That kiss… disgusting, revolting, like a stain I can’t wash off. When he asked if I thought he was ugly, I should have screamed it in his face. But fear strangled the words. That failure burns worse than anything else.
I hate that monster.
I run my hands over my face, trying to cut through the storm of thoughts.
It’s useless.
Thinking about him only drains me.
I just need to survive one more day–nothing more.
The bars open again. A guard shouts for us to move out. I step into the hallway slowly, surrounded by the shuffling of dozens of feet on cold
concrete,
The inmates line up like cattle. I fall in behind them, expecting we’re being taken to showers.
But no.
We marched straight to the cafeteria.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
