Brett’s Perspective
Yeah, things have been pretty good lately.
Don’t get wrong, my old life had its perks. School, howork, those "aningful" sumr camps my parents loved, even sneaking out for a street race... they had their monts. But compared to *now*? They were nothing.
Now, it feels like I’ve been rebooted. No—like I’ve started actually *living*. Living like a wolf, not so dosticated, declawed dog taught to follow "rules."
Yard ti is the best. Sunlight—even the weak kind filtering through razor wire. Cold air. Rough concrete. And the guys—no, the *wolves*. We shove, we roar, we fight over half a crumpled cigarette or an extra scoop of mush. The wet thud of fists on flesh, the sharp *crack* of teeth snapping near an ear, the raw, gritty sll of sweat, blood, and dirt... it gets my blood pumping faster than any music, any cologne ever did.
We spit into the guards’ blind spots, seeing who can hit farthest. When we see a particularly smug guard or a hated inmate, we exchange a look, find a mont, and piss on a nearby wall. Marking territory. Leaving our scent as a blatant "screw you." The rush of that open defiance, seeing their faces flush with anger they can’t act on... it beats the thrill of a redlining engine by a mile.
Luka, Scarface, and the others, they teach more. How to fight dirty and efficient. How to use the environnt. How to read who’s weak, who to avoid for now. I’m not the scared kid who got cornered that first day. My glare has bite now. My back is straight. My fists know where to land. My growl carries real threat. I’ve even started to like the flicker of wariness in other inmates’ eyes when they look at .
I like this life. Brutal. Direct. No complicated "pack duties," "future plans," or "social graces." Strength is the rule. Vigilance is instinct. Living loud is the whole point. I feel untethered, like I finally shook off invisible chains. Maybe being a stray isn’t so bad?
But Luka, the guy I trust most here, has been acting... off. Heavy. One night after lights-out, huddled in our corner whispering, he leaned in close, his voice a bare thread of sound, serious in a way I rarely heard.
"Brett, don’t get too comfortable here," he muttered into the dark, his eyes fixed on the cell door. "This place... it’s wrong."
"Wrong? What prison isn’t?" I brushed it off, still relishing the feel of busting a guy’s nose earlier that day.
"Not like that." His voice dropped lower. "You notice? They keep too much deadweight here."
"Deadweight?"
"Yeah. The useless ones. The old, the sick, the crazy, the fools who can’t even learn to stick with a group... In any real pack gathering, they’d be driven out or culled. But here..." He paused. "They’re kept. Fed. Taking up space. Like... livestock."
I frowned. I hadn’t thought about it. But he was right. There were always those few curled in corners, eyes vacant, or muttering to themselves, banging their heads on walls.
"And," Luka’s voice was almost a breath now, "I’ve been watching. Every week... pretty much every week, a few of the old faces disappear. Not transferred. Just gone. After a headcount. Or overnight."
A chill crept up my spine. "Dead? Taken out?"
"Maybe. But the thing is, when so vanish, new faces show up. Transfers from other blocks. Fresh catches like you. The total stays about the sa, so nobody cares." Luka turned his head. In the faint light, I saw the gravity in his eyes. "But I care. Why ’cull’ so and replace them? They’re maintaining a... a steady supply. For what?"
*For what?*
"You think... they’re *using* us for sothing?" My own voice was a whisper.
"Don’t know. But it ain’t good." Luka said. "So that thing I ntioned before... about finding a way *out*... you need to think on it, Brett. Not just to run. To find out what the hell this is. To... survive."
*Escape.* The word made my heart pound, not with fear, but with a familiar, reckless thrill that outdid any brawl. Imagining it—beating these walls and wires, outsmarting the guards who thought they owned us, bursting into the free night... Hell yeah!
"I’m in," I said without hesitation, my blood heating up again. "What do you need to do?"
Luka studied for a long mont, judging my resolve, then gave a slow nod. "Not yet. Don’t breathe a word. Keep acting like you are. But watch. Learn the patrol timings. Notice which caras might be dummies, which walls sound hollow. We need the perfect mont. Or... we make one."
I nodded firmly. The new purpose made the oppressive grey walls feel less suffocating. Was I scared? A little. But mostly, I was itching for it. Hanging here was one kind of freedom. But smashing out of this creepy cage? That was the real thing.
As for the secrets this place held? The vanished "deadweight"?
Screw it. We’d deal with that after we got out. If there was so shady operation going on, maybe we could blow the lid off it. Now *that* would be a story.
I licked my dry lips. In the darkness, a feral, eager grin spread across my face without even realizing it.
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