Epilogue Razor
Epilogue
Razor
HMP Pentonville.
They called it the Ville inside, as if the nickname might dull the blade.
North London remand. Victorian brick and rot, a place built to hold men while the system decided how much of them it planned to take. I wasn’t guilty. Nor was I innocent, either. I was just here. Waiting.
I woke to noise.
Not the low hum of traffic outside my flat, not bass bleeding through club walls at dawn.
Not even thwack, thwack, fucking grunt. This was shouting.
Metal slamming metal. Someone coughing wetly down the landing.
Boots cracking against concrete with no hurry and no mercy.
And for half a second, my body didn’t know where I was.
My hand twitched, reaching for a phone that wasn’t there. For warmth. For silk sheets.
Tristan’s heat pressed into my back.
Then the smell hit.
Bleach. Sweat. Old damp. Sourness living in the walls.
The cell was barely bigger than a walk-in wardrobe.
A concrete slab for a bed. A mattress so thin it might as well have been a joke.
Stainless steel sink bolted to the wall.
A toilet in the corner with no lid, no privacy, no dignity.
Someone had scratched words into the paint above it—NO ONE GETS OUT CLEAN—cut deep enough to scar.
Figures.
I sat up, scraping my elbows on my knees, locked my jaw tight. My hands ached from clenching them in my sleep.
Remand.
Not sentenced. Not convicted. Parked. Left to rot while men in suits argued over how thoroughly they wanted to dismantle me.
I breathed through my nose. Neutral face. Same rules as always.
Emotion got you hurt. In here, it got you killed.
“Bang up’s over,” a screw shouted. “Breakfast. Move.”
The door crashed open. I stepped out onto the spur with the rest of them, shoulders loose, eyes flat.
Grey sweats. Grey faces. Men who knew the rhythm of the place, and men pretending they didn’t care they were learning it.
No one stared for long. They clocked me, though.
Everyone did. My size. Posture. The fact I didn’t rush.
We funnelled down to the servery. Plastic trays slid across steel. Porridge ladled out in thick, beige slop. A plastic cup of tea the colour of piss. I took mine without comment, kept my head down, moved like I belonged.
Because for now, I did.
I sat at an empty table, back to the wall. First rule. The porridge steamed faintly. Smelt like nothing. Tasted worse. I ate it anyway. Fuel was fuel. And I was halfway through when a shadow fell across the table and a tray slapped down opposite mine, hard enough to rattle the plastic.
I didn’t look up.
Not until, “Hello, Razor.”
My stomach dropped.
I looked up.
And stared straight at a man I could pick out of a line up.
Same smile. Same dead eyes. Older than the last time I’d seen him, but only in the way predators aged.
Bigger, meaner, more patient. Tattoos creeping up his neck, disappearing under the collar of his sweatshirt. He belonged here. That was the problem.
“Ghost.” I continued eating my porridge, calm as dishwater.
He laughed. Low. Ugly. A sound designed to carry. Heads turned, then turned away just as fast.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.” Ghost sat opposite me. “This wing’s usually above your pay grade.”
I lifted one shoulder. “World’s full of surprises.”
I ate my porridge, eyes down. Didn’t acknowledge the irony of it. Me across a plastic table from him. Didn’t let myself think about how, months back, Tristan had given me the knowledge to orchestrate his arrest for having the audacity to wander into my world. My streets. My air.
Now I was in his.
He leant forward, dumping his elbows on the table and lowering his voice so I had to lean in without meaning to.
“You must’ve really fucked up.” He chuckled, scooping another mouthful of porridge, and ate it as if it was a delicacy. “Who’d you piss off, eh?”
I peered up at him through my lashes, keeping my head bowed. Neutral. Unbothered.
“Must’ve been someone high up.” He shovelled in more slop. “Someone wanted to make a point. Thought it’d be funny to drop you in my prison. Someone with…contacts.”
He laughed again, leant back, rubbed his stomach so his T-shirt rode up, tattoos stretching over muscle.
“’Cause in here?” He tilted his head, gold teeth flashing. “You’re no one, Razor.”
The words settled heavy in my chest. Not because they were new, but because they were true. Rank didn’t follow through the gates. Reputation didn’t mean shit if the wrong man decided you were a message.
Ghost straightened and lifted his tray. “Better watch yourself.” He stepped around the table and dipped close enough for his rancid breath to seep into my ear. “Accidents happen in remand.”
A screw barked at him to move on. Ghost didn’t argue. He smiled and walked away. I kept my face blank. Kept eating. Breathing. As if nothing had shifted. But something cold and exact slid into place behind my ribs.
This hadn’t been chance.
It hadn’t been bad luck.
And it sure as fuck hadn’t been timing.
Cormac sending me to that lockup when he did.
The drop being clean except for the one thing with my name all over it.
My prints. Pretty Poison was tied to no one else but me.
Not by what they found. By what they expected to.
That’s the kicker. The trick. I thought I’d been clever. Turns out, not so much.
Now Kyan was pinned on me. Cause suddenly, I was the only body in that warehouse in Battersea. And I knew who Tyler would back when asked.
Sure, I’d clocked Cormac’s hand in it straight away. Paranoia. Damage control. A test gone wrong. That part made sense. Funny thing was, it hadn’t even needed to be there to land me in here. The rest had been filled in after the facts.
But this?
This wasn’t just Cormac.
“You should know him in your line of work.”
Someone else had been steering the whole thing. Someone with reach. With patience. With enough pull to land me exactly where Ghost could get to me. Someone who didn’t just want me off the streets. They wanted me dismantled.
Piece by piece.
Power like that didn’t move in fists. It moved like leverage.
And I’d given them mine the moment I let myself want Tristan Hale-Fitzroy.
Pretty Poison Continues with
Claim (Pretty Poison Book 3)
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