Solitary Confinement

The door slammed shut, sealing Jasper inside.

Darkness. Silence. Isolation.

The only sounds were his own breathing and the slow, rhythmic drip of water from somewhere in the cell. The concrete was cold beneath him, the air thick with the stench of sweat and desperation.

Jasper sat on the small bench, aching, bleeding, but alive. His side throbbed where Ragor's blade had cut him, but the real pain was deeper.

How long would they leave him here?

Time didn't exist in solitary. No clocks, no windows, no way to measure the hours. He closed his eyes, trying to push past the pain, past the exhaustion. But his mind wouldn't stop.

Ben Zemmer's smug face in the courtroom.

Lyme's lifeless body.

Ragor's scream when Jasper turned the blade on him.

He exhaled slowly. Good. Let the pain settle. Let it fuel him.

Then came the worst part.

The waiting.

Jasper did push-ups. Squats. Shadowboxed in the tiny space. Anything to keep his body from stiffening, to keep his mind from spiraling.

The food came irregularly—if it even was food. Some days, they slid a tray through the slot; other days, nothing.

Sleep was worse. Every time he started to drift, a loud bang on the metal door jolted him awake.

They wanted him broken.

They would fail.

Day…?

A metallic scrape broke the silence.

Jasper sat up as a piece of paper slid through the food slot.

A note.

His pulse quickened as he unfolded it, scanning the rough, smudged letters.

"You made a move. Now it's their turn. Watch your back. – P"

Pante.

Jasper crushed the paper in his fist.

Ragor was done, but this wasn't over.

If Pante was warning him, it meant only one thing.

Someone else was coming.

And next time, they wouldn't send Ragor.

They'd send someone worse.