chapter 7

The next morning, the prison dining hall is buzzing with whispers, the tension palpable as groups of inmates huddle at their tables.

Owen is sitting at a bench near the corner, his posture relaxed, a plate of watery porridge and a slice of stale bread in front of him. He eats slowly, his ears tuned to the conversations swirling around the room.

"Did you hear what happened yesterday?" an inmate says, leaning closer to the one beside him.

"Yeah, man. Everyone knows," the other replies, shoving a spoon of food into his mouth. "Jasper shot the officer. Crazy stuff."

"That's not even the crazy part," the first inmate whispers, glancing around to make sure no guards are near. "He said some ghost thing did it. Like, what the hell? If you're gonna mess up that bad, at least come up with a believable excuse."

"Ghost my ass," another scoffs from a nearby table. "You think a ghost can shoot? That's the dumbest shit I've ever heard."

"But..." a nervous voice chimes in, barely audible over the low hum of murmurs. "What if it's real? I mean, the officer got shot point-blank, and Jasper's crew swears it wasn't them. They said some phantom whispered to them, and then... bam!"

"Speaking of ghosts," another inmate cuts in, his tone conspiratorial, "you hear about the guys in Cell 123? That old man and his cellmate? I heard they disappeared last night. Poof. Just gone."

"Disappeared? Come on," someone else scoffs. "They probably found a way out. Dug a tunnel or something. You know how it is."

"Tunnel?" The first inmate leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You think someone can just escape from here? Security's tighter than a vice right now. No way they just walked out. Maybe..." His voice lowers even further. "Maybe they had something to do with this ghost thing."

Owen hides his smirk, scooping a spoonful of porridge into his mouth. Every word, every hushed tone of fear and uncertainty feeds his ego like a feast. He chews slowly, savoring not the food but the delicious chaos unfurling around him.

"They'll know about the phantom soon enough," he murmurs, his smirk growing wider. "Guess I should give them a real show."

Meanwhile, in the dim corridors outside the punishment cells, the air is heavy with tension.

The boss, John, stands at the iron gate, his imposing frame casting a long shadow in the faint light. Jasper is behind the bars, his face bruised, his body hunched.

John's glare is icy, his voice low and menacing. "What the hell were you thinking, Jasper? Shooting the officer during a deal? Do you have any idea what kind of heat you've brought down on us?"

Jasper shakes his head, his voice shaking. "Boss, I didn't... I didn't shoot him. I swear on my life. The deal was going smooth, just like always, but then..." His voice falters, and he swallows hard. "Then this thing—this... ghost showed up."

John narrows his eyes, his lip curling in disgust. "Do I look like an idiot to you? A ghost? That's the best you can come up with?"

"I'm telling the truth!" Jasper's voice rises, desperate. "It whispered to us, boss. Said this was its area now. Said it would kill anyone in its way. Then it shot the officer. I swear, it's not me. It's after us!"

John steps closer to the bars, his face inches from Jasper's. His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "If you're lying to me, Jasper, I'll make sure you don't leave this cell alive."

John turns sharply to the guy beside him, a lean man with cold eyes. "Keep an eye on this. Find out who's behind it. I want answers."

Then he walks away without another word, leaving Jasper pale and shaking in the shadows.

In another corner of the prison, The Warden's office, Warden Katherine Pierce sits at her desk, her expression hard as stone. Her sharp eyes flick between the officers standing before her. The tension in the room is thick, the silence punctuated by the faint scratch of her pen on paper.

"Have you found the weapon?" she asks without looking up, her voice clipped.

"Not yet, ma'am," one officer says, his hands clasped behind his back. "But we've increased security in all sectors. No one moves without clearance now."

"And the contraband?" Her gaze snaps up to meet his. "Have you seized it yet?"

The officer clears his throat, shifting under her piercing stare. "We're still tracking it down. The pouch wasn't found on the suspects."

Katherine leans back in her chair, letting out a slow, measured breath. "Let me make this very clear. I don't care about ghost stories or rumors. What I care about is discipline and order. Find that weapon. Find those drugs. And if I hear one more excuse, I'll replace every single one of you. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," the officer mumbles, hastily leaving the room.

Back in the dining hall, Owen finishes his meal. The whispers about the ghost haven't stopped yet. While some dismiss it as nonsense, some seem genuinely unsettled.

"They will believe me soon enough." Owen thinks, wiping his hands on his pants. "Let's give them something they can't ignore."

He stands up and walks away, a smile tugging at his lips.

The following evening, chaos grips the dining hall again. Prisoners crowd around a wall near the entrance, their voices a mix of whispers and shouts.

Owen walks in casually, his hands tucked into his pockets, a smug smile playing on his lips. He already knows what they're staring at.

Scrawled across the wall in jagged, bold letters are the words:

"I AM REAL."

The words are written with ketchup, the crimson streaks dripping ominously down the wall like blood. The sight sends a ripple of unease through the room.

"Who the hell did this?" a burly inmate demands, his voice cutting through the whispers. "This ghost shit is getting out of hand."

"Maybe it's just some punk messing with us," another mutters, though his voice lacks conviction.

The guards arrive, trying to disperse the crowd, but the tension lingers. The whispers grow louder, speculation swirling like a storm.

"Do you think... it's really the ghost?" one inmate whispers.

"Stop it, man," another snaps. "There's no such thing."

The warden storms into the hall, her expression thunderous. She scans the scene, her eyes narrowing at the crimson message on the wall.

"What happened here?" she barks at the nearest officer.

"Someone wrote this and..." He hesitates, swallowing nervously. "And the luxury meals have been raided, ma'am. The food's gone, and only scraps were left behind."

Katherine's jaw tightens. "And? Have you found who did it?"

The officer hesitates again. "Not yet, ma'am."

"Then find out!" she snaps. "And tighten patrols even further. I want answers, not excuses. Check cameras or whatever, just find out who did this."

In the corner, Owen leans against the wall, arms crossed, his grin widening. The phantom is no longer just a rumor—it's becoming true slowly. He has sowen the seed, and now he just needs to care for that.

As the warden barks more orders, Owen silently turns invisible, walking past the chaos unnoticed.

On his way out, he slaps the ass of a female prisoner standing in the crowd, chuckling softly to himself as she jumps in surprise, looking behind.

A creepy smile tugs at his lips as he walks away.

"Let's see how far I can take this."