Chapter 3
SINN'OUS
Information gathering is easy when you know the right people to squeeze it out of. Like a sponge compressed until every drop is wrung out.
First stop on the list would be someone close to the prey in question. And Phelix is just the man to see. Someone who will cough up information without any push back.
The raised voices drifting from the cell in question give Sinn'ous pause. Often the best facts are those others’ think they kept hidden.
“Why are you so hostile about him?” Phelix’s laid-back tone is something you can pick out of a room of hollering men.
The second voice is deep and ringed in by unchecked hatred. “I don’t know, I don’t like his face.”
“His face?” The slow drawn-out words are followed by a laugh that’s tinted in humour.
“I just don’t like him. Why the fuck does he have to sit with us?”
“Did you not see Reni? That man is crushing hard.”
“Whatever. I’m telling you, he is bad fucking news.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I’m not fucking jealous.” The long pause is a telling one, Sinn'ous can see the faces being exchanged like he’s standing right in front of them and not tucked in the shadows of a neighbouring cell. “You know what, screw you.”
One of the newer additions to Reni’s clique storms out of Phelix’s cell—what’s his name?
Davis? David?—fists clenched by his side, his jaw clenching under the tattooed scripture on the sides of his face.
The stomping power walk past Sinn'ous is taken without a single glance over. And following in his retreat is Phelix’s obnoxious laughter.
The cell is the same in every detail, down to the metal toilet, chipped concrete floor, and flat mattresses on identical bunks. The only hints of a change in scenery are the small personal items. A few photos, some commissary items, and scattered clothes.
The sigh that leaves Phelix is nasally and exaggerated. “Let me guess, information on the new guy?”
Sinn'ous allows the silence to speak for him. His hands loose but ready at his sides, height looming over Phelix. Should this need a more physical approach he is on the balls of his feet and jonesing for a fight.
“I have nothing. In case it slipped past you, he’s been here all of five minutes.
I know a name, and not even his legal one, and that’s about it.
He calls himself Izz. Or that’s just what Reni decided to call him.
It could swing either way.” Phelix crosses his arms over his chest, his golden curls jostling at the movement.
“That’s the start and end of it. It’s all I’ve got. ”
Sinn'ous’s features stay neutral and the silence stretches while he waits. Sometimes it takes silence to coax answers, it’s not always about inflicting pain to get what you want.
Phelix drops his arms, and licks his lips, his eyes skirting away. “Reni asked about getting some weed, he doesn’t smoke it so I’m guessing it’s for Izz? But that’s a wild guess, it could very well be for someone Reni lost a bet too.”
It isn’t as much as he wants to learn but it’s also better than nothing. And Phelix is not the only source of information around here. The next stop should prove to be more insightful.
~~~
His travels to K-Wing were the same as always, even the grunted gasps of that junkie, Erik, being railed from behind in a storage space his dealer didn’t bother closing the door too isn’t much of an eye opener.
Walking in on men fucking is so frequent and common practice, Sinn'ous would be more cautious to enter an empty room.
The guards’ office door is an easy flick of the wrist and the blunt end of a razor blade to open, his lock picking skills snoring at the ease in which the door latch clicks.
For a prison aiming to keep people in, they sure do fail at adequate interior locks.
Or cameras. The guards’ office is one among many in the long list of rooms which aren’t covered under surveillance.
His knowledge of the guards’ schedule concludes he will be opening the way to an empty room except for one individual.
Guards tend to stick to traveling in pairs, when they aren’t understaffed, which is more miss than hit.
This particular guard’s partner is one who sneaks down to The Hole for his breaks to visit an inmate locked down there.
Giving Sinn'ous the opportunity to talk to CO Collin Rogers, alone.
The smell of stale coffee and depression lingers in the very air follicles.
It goes with the decor of flaking paint, battered lockers, a stained coffee machine, and roach shit on the floor.
The table and chairs not being bolted to the floor are about all there is to tell someone this is a part of the prison inmates should not be in.
Seated in a way which proves the last lesson did not stick, Rogers is scrolling on his phone, head propped in his hand and fast food spread out on the table’s surface. His back to the doorway and completely unaware of his surroundings.
Sinn'ous pulls out the chair on the table’s opposite side, so his own back is to the wall and he faces the door and a startled guard.
“Jesus fuck.” Rogers drops his phone on the table, missing the paper-box of steaming chips by an inch, and grabs at his chest, squeezing the uniform above his heart. “Why do you always do that?”
In the time since their first interaction Sinn'ous and Rogers ‘relationship’ has grown into something deeper. Not on his side, but on the guard’s it has a fear-filled respect and loyalty.
He knows he doesn’t need to threaten Rogers for the man’s lips to remain sealed should there ever be any cops sniffing around Sinn'ous’s heels.
He leans back in his chair, kicking his legs out under the table, presenting himself in a way that will placate and relax the other man.
Rogers scrubs a hand through his hair. “What can I help you with?” his voice is resigned in the way that says he assumes this is the usual evidence erasure. And pushes over the chips’ box, offering them wordlessly to Sinn'ous.
“I want everything you can find on the new inmate. His home life, his family, his job, his relationships, if he owns a cat. I want it all. By tomorrow.”
Rogers raises a brow and takes a bite of his burger.
“Is that all?” he mumbles around his mouthful.
“You know that can’t happen—”he raises his hand, “and before you get all pissy and murdery. It’s not me saying no.
I’m just not some secret agent, it’ll take a while to get everything on the kid’s life .
. .” his voice trails and he hesitates before continuing.
“You aren’t going to kill him, are you? He seems like a decent kid—little naive if he’s keeping you as company, but a decent kid.
And in this economy who wouldn’t benefit from a little theft.
” He chuckles humourlessly at the last quip, which dies once he looks towards Sinn'ous.
Theft? That’s more than he knew.
The boy doesn’t strike Sinn'ous as someone selfish—or brave—enough to steal for only himself. He’d avoid it if he could, so he must have done it for someone else. Blackmail? Or family?
His musings are interrupted by Rogers’s low voice.
“Why do you need to kill him? The kid’s clearly completely clueless. Why not keep him around—”
“It doesn’t concern you.” Sinn'ous’s face closes off and his lips thin.
Rogers sinks back into his chair at the same time my mood sours. He winces and displays his open palms in a placating gesture. “Yeah, sure thing. Whatever.” His eyes fix on a place on the table. “It’s just something to think about—or not. Your business.”
~~~
A tepid warm shower is one of the small luxuries they are afforded. A well-timed ice bath is a choice when you need to snap-freeze your mind, and clear your head. And the trickle of a room temperature drizzle can be what you need to sort through the ever-flowing cascade of plans.
Clouds of steam and streams of voices are not on the list of pleasantries when it comes to scrubbing clean, neither are the naked bodies milling about.
It’s a struggle not to push one down and redden the skin.
And Sinn'ous carries a razor that could make quick work of a few dozen men.
Then he can watch the blood swirling down the drains while his mind churns over all the angles of approaching his prey.
He’s on the fringes of stragglers just now entering, while men funnel from the communal showers on their way out.
Some scrubbing towels over their hair or bodies, others stark naked, and then there are the more modest men wrapped in their scratchy towels as though everyone in here hasn’t seen countless dicks.
Sinn'ous strips from his sweat crusted clothes, the low-quality fabric almost crunching as it’s relieved from his body.
He piles his clothes in the same place he always does.
The furthest corner, out of the line of sight from the doors—both the ones leading to the showers and the set which exit into the corridors.
It’s a corner wedge he can press into, stopping anyone from having the chance to come up behind him.
Having anyone at his back is a vulnerability he hasn’t undergone since he was a kid.
Reni’s clique is dressing by the doors, and the new inmate is not among them. The likelihood he has been dropped by the group is slim, and at the same time it’s a silent hope. If they have cast him out it will make ensnaring him oh so much easier without them hovering in the way.
A lull in bodies exiting the showers is Sinn'ous’s cue to move. Stepping through the archway into the wet moisture filled air.
He pulls up short when the object of his thoughts steps into the way, nearly walking right into him.
The boy’s head is down, in a way that screams vulnerable prey. It would be so easy to snatch him up, drag him into a shadowed corner, and consume him. All before he knows what’s caught him.
“Sorry, my fault.” The boy’s voice is soft, in a breezy way that rubs over the rough edges, sanding them smooth.
And then the boy looks up and sort of short circuits.
Everything behind his vibrant green eyes fade into non-existence.
The beading water droplets trickling from his hair line latch onto his lashes, and he doesn’t blink them away.
A little doe caught in headlights, and all Sinn'ous wants to do is rev the engine and put his foot to the floor.
No, it would be over too quickly. Half the fun is in the hunt.
A small pink tongue flicks out to wet his prey’s lips, the action repeated multiple times—a nervous tick, perhaps?
And he turns so pale there’s a high chance he’s about to pass out.
The boy’s reaction serves to piss him off, fuelling his resolve to cut the connection between him and Reni, before more damage can be done.
It has crawling ants burrowing their way under Sinn'ous’s skin, anger coiled into a tight ball that sticks his feet to the tiled floor.
Can’t hunt prey if the prey knows who to look for.
Well, you can. But half the fun is catching them and watching the dawning horror colour their features as it slowly dawns on them what you are.
Sinn'ous holds his ground. Eating in every tick of muscle in his prey, while those green eyes do the same. It’s a standoff, and he’s on the winning end.
His lack of movement is half to rain in control. Keeping a stoic face while anger swims under his skin is not a skill he is particularly versed in. Even the constant reminder of the games he wishes to partake in—the inevitable hunt—does little to stay his hand.
This isn’t just about the kill.
And the other half of him. A part he pushes to the foreground. Is whispering at how close he is to that petite body, with all the soft curves and unblemished skin. Save for a couple small tattoos on the biceps, the rest of his torso is an open canvas.
What I wouldn’t give to place scars there.
He’s so close he can scent the unique aroma that belongs to this individual, even under the clinging diluted fragrance of prison soap.
The pause gives the boy the opportunity to drop his gaze, for his eyes to hone in on every tattoo marking Sinn'ous’s skin. The light dusting of a blush is another bemusing vulnerability peeking out. It has Sinn'ous gritting his teeth to lock his hands by his sides.
“Izz.” The annoyance known as Zidie bellows from the other room, digging into the young prisoner’s studying of Sinn'ous and taking away his heat inducing gaze. “What’s taking ya so long? We wants’ to go.”
Zidie has just added his name to the list of interferences who need to go. Right alongside Reni.
Using the distraction Sinn'ous passes the boy unnoticed, and slips into the shower room, moving out of sight to a corner shower head. His shoulders are taunt to the onslaught of an overwhelming desire to kill.
One man three spaces down side-eyes Sinn'ous before shutting off his spray and moving down another several spaces.
Leaving Sinn'ous alone to lean his forearms on the tiled wall and bow his head into the spray. His muscles are wound tight enough to crack bone, and the lacking water pressure drizzling out isn’t helping massage the knots away.
If anything the trickling tickle is serving to add to his aggravation.
His grounding solace is in the blood ink over his skin. The tattoos of deep crimson giving the illusion of blood dripping over his upper arms to the crooks of his elbows. It calms his mind and allows it to drift into a sea of spilled blood and gurgled screams.