Page 73

It wasn’t chow, after all.

As soon as the block doors released, the usual lines to the canteen were barricaded by two guards in riot gear, full face shields, visors dripping with morning rain. They shunted us instead toward the outside, through a side corridor that I’d never seen open before. The air reeked of ozone and boot oil. No one talked, not even Stitch, who followed just behind me, her hands jammed into her sleeves to hide the tremor.

Outside, the world was still blue. Not the Authority blue of the cell lights, but the washed-out blue of real sky filtered through the razorwire grid overhead. The yard was a pit: dirt gone to mud, puddles black with whatever leached from the old concrete. The sound of it was wrong—open, echoing, with just enough wind to strip the heat from your bones. Maybe thirty of us, all in orange or patchwork, herded into a rough oval around a raised metal platform at the yard’s center.

Atop the platform stood Petrov. He was flanked by four guards, all in fresh armor, hands on rifles. I counted the distance from the crowd to the platform—ten meters, just outside of easy rush range. The guards didn’t bother to hide their intent. One had his finger on the trigger, safety probably off, the barrel never wavering from the mass of bodies below.

Petrov surveyed the crowd with the air of a priest preparing for mass, except he was more executioner than savior. His coat was Authority black, freshly pressed, the insignia at his shoulder a perfect white circle. His eyes cut from face to face, lingering on anyone who didn’t look away in the first half-second. I made sure to hold his gaze for two.

When the last of us were penned in, a thin, amplified voice crackled from a speaker mounted above the platform. “Attention. All personnel, halt movement and listen for instruction.” It was the guard captain, invisible from the ground, reading the script. Petrov held up a hand, and the voice faded.

He didn’t need amplification. He just started speaking, and every muscle in every body went to stone.

“There was an incident in D block last night.” He didn’t name names, didn’t even reference the dead. “A breakdown in order. A reminder, perhaps, that some among you still dream of old freedoms, of challenge, of chaos.”

I watched the crowd, not Petrov. The words hit different bodies different ways. Some prisoners shrank, heads bowed, arms crossed in a defense that Authority couldn’t care less about. Others stared dead ahead, making themselves into statues. I saw a woman near the front—her neck ringed with the purple bruise of an old riot baton—twitch at the word “chaos,” her jaw set, eyes gone to glass.

Petrov let the silence build until it was uncomfortable, then kept going.

“We do not tolerate escalation. We do not tolerate insubordination.” He paused, scanning the faces, settling for a breath on mine. “We do not tolerate violence against the system.”

His mouth curled at the edge, almost a smile.

“Anyone responsible will be dealt with. Anyone aiding, abetting, or even watching without reporting will join them. The Authority does not need examples, but if you require one⁠—”

He stepped aside, and two guards hauled a body up onto the platform. It was Inmate Thirty-Five, or what was left of him. His face was a disaster, eyes swollen shut, jaw twice the size it should be. He was still alive, or at least twitching, but his jumpsuit had been replaced with a bright white smock. The color was almost obscene.

Petrov gestured at the body. “This is what comes of resisting order. This is what you all risk, every time you step outside your place.”

He let that hang, then snapped his fingers. A third guard approached with a device—cylindrical, Authority matte. The guard clamped it to Thirty-Five’s head. There was a hiss, and the man spasmed once, then fell limp.

Petrov didn’t look at the body. He faced the crowd.

“Discipline is the only currency here. If you wish to spend it, you must be prepared to pay.” He scanned the mass again, slower this time, as if cataloging which of us would fold and which would break. His gaze landed on me, and he held it, steady as a laser.

A ripple ran through the crowd. Not sound, not movement—just an animal knowledge that something fundamental had shifted. A few prisoners crossed themselves, or whatever passed for that in this place. Others just stared, hollow.

Petrov nodded, as if satisfied with the result. “You will return to routine. You will not discuss the incident. You will not speculate. The next infraction will be punished with the chamber.”

The chamber.

The effect was immediate. Even the guards flinched.

Petrov smirked, the barest movement of his mouth. “Dismissed.”

The mass of bodies broke apart in a shamble. I moved with them, letting the current carry me toward the exit, heart pounding but face neutral. Stitch appeared at my elbow, her eyes wild.

“What the fuck is the chamber?” she whispered, barely moving her lips.

I shook my head, but I’d already filed away the possibilities. The Authority liked their experiments neat. If pain and isolation didn’t break you, they upped the voltage—chemical, electrical, or psychological. Sometimes all three at once.

I glanced back at the platform. The body was gone. So was Petrov.

The yard was suddenly colder.

Back inside, the day resumed its schedule like nothing had happened. The canteen was filled with the sound of shuffling trays, the slap of protein slabs on plastic, the monotone bark of guard instructions. But there was a new edge now—every conversation clipped, every laugh fake and hollow.

Stitch and I ate in silence. She toyed with her food, picking it apart fiber by fiber, like maybe if she could reconstruct what it was made of, it would stop being disgusting. I watched the guards, clocking their patrols, the way they hovered at every entrance, the way their eyes flicked to the wristbands of every inmate. They were looking for signals, for outliers, for any sign of rebellion. I made sure to give them nothing.