2. Mason
2
MASON
F orty-eight hours in isolation does nothing but strip a man down to his bare bones. It forces perspective, makes you face the things you’d rather keep buried. I’m sure there’s some rule about how long an inmate can be locked away like that, but rules don’t mean shit in here. They don’t stop the walls from pressing in. They don’t keep your mind from twisting itself into knots.
It probably wasn’t my finest moment when I hit the officer. Granted, he knew it was coming, and it was all part of my carefully constructed plan, but it earned me two days lost in solitary. This should have been a straight in and out assignment, and now I’ll probably be here for a week. Just because.
When the guard finally swings the door open, the first thing that hits me is the light—blinding, too bright after two days in a windowless cell where time is a concept, not a reality. I blink hard, adjusting as I step out, stretching limbs that ache from too much stillness.
The walk to the mess hall is quiet, just the steady rhythm of boots on concrete, the guard leading the way like I’m some half-tamed animal being reintroduced to the pack.
Then the doors open, and I get my first taste of the general population.
It’s chaos wrapped in a thin veil of order. Noise, bodies shifting, the air thick with sweat, desperation, and unspoken threats. It’s a battlefield without guns, a place where power is measured in who looks away first.
And from the looks of it, I’ve just been thrown into the deep end.
Stainless steel trays clatter against plastic tables, the noise mingling with low murmurs and the occasional bark of a guard. I move through the line, my body still aching from going head to head with officers before I was thrown in here. Not much my fists can’t do, it seems. But they sure as hell can get me into a world of trouble.
I grip my tray—some unidentifiable slop, stale bread, and a cup of murky water—and scan the room. Prison politics are simple. You sit where you belong. Problem is, I don’t belong here. Not to the skinheads, not to the Latinos, not to the street gangs eyeing me like fresh meat. I’m a Moreno, but the only family I have in here is me. Which is just the way I like it; no one wants to see their family suffering, and I’m no different.
I spot an empty table against the wall, away from the cliques. That’ll do.
I don’t make it ten steps before a body blocks my way. Then another. And another.
A gang of young ones. Fresh fish. Four of them, maybe five. Their movements are sloppy, aggressive but untrained, fueled by adrenaline and whatever they have to prove. Trying to make a name for themselves in here, I guess. Their leader—a wiry kid with a jagged scar along his chin—grins at me like a hyena. He tries for menacing, but he has two front side teeth missing; it would be comical under any other circumstance.
“You’re the Moreno guy, huh?” His voice is hoarse, like he smokes too much or got his throat fucked up in a fight somewhere along the line. He tilts his head toward his crew. “We heard you’re untouchable.”
I keep my grip loose on the tray, my stance casual. “News travels fast.”
Scar-Chin steps closer. “See, I know men like you. Big on the outside, but in here, you’re nothin’. You come in here, act like you’re above us, but here, you ain’t somethin’ unless someone makes you somethin’.”
I sigh. “I’ve been here forty-eight hours, asshole. I haven’t acted like anything.”
A fist flies toward my face. Perfect.
I duck at the last second, my tray crashing to the floor. My knee jerks up, slamming into Scar-Chin’s gut. He grunts, stumbles, but his boys are already on me.
One catches me in the ribs—a sharp, bruising jab. Another gets his arm around my neck, but I twist, grabbing his wrist and wrenching it hard. Something pops, and he screams. The smell of sweat and prison food is nauseating as bodies crash into each other, shouts erupting around us.
I elbow another kid in the jaw, but there are too many. A blade flashes—shanked from a toothbrush, serrated and jagged. I twist, but not fast enough. Pain rips across my arm, a hot, stinging burn. The bastard got me.
They smell blood now. Mine. Which only fuels them.
Scar-Chin surges forward, but before he can land another blow, a shadow looms behind him.
Then everything stops. Just as quickly as the fight erupted, everything seems to pause, as though in slow motion.
A massive arm hooks around Scar-Chin’s throat and yanks him back like a rag doll. The others freeze. A deep, gravelly voice cuts through the chaos.
“Enough.”
A man, bigger even than me, holds Scar-Chin under his arm, but his eyes are glued to mine. The man is massive, with triceps that I’m sure could squeeze the life out of the man he’s holding without much effort.
Scar-Chin gags as the man tightens his hold. “Let me make something real clear,” the giant says, his voice calm, almost bored. “This one? He’s off-limits.”
Scar-Chin wheezes. His boys shift, looking at each other like maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
The man lets him go, shoving him forward until he stumbles. “Go.”
They scatter, leaving me standing there, blood dripping from my arm. The mess hall is still loud, but the energy has shifted. Nobody will touch me now. Not unless they want to deal with the big man.
He gives me a long look, like he’s sizing me up. Then he turns, walks back to his table, and takes his seat like nothing happened. Just another day in the mess hall.
I exhale. Pick up what’s left of my tray and head to an open table, where I plop it down and push it aside. No way am I eating the slush; I guess the bread will have to do.
A minute later, someone slides onto the bench across from me. A skinny kid, jittery, barely into adulthood. His hands twitch as he picks up a piece of bread and tears at it like a rat nibbling on scraps.
I watch him. He fidgets. His eyes dart around, never landing on me for too long.
“Clay,” he says finally, not meeting my gaze. There’s a nervous tension about him.
I take a bite of my bread, chewing slowly. “Mason.”
Clay nods like he already knew that. His leg bounces under the table. “Saw what happened. That was… uh, intense.”
“Yeah.” I eye the kid suspiciously, wondering what he wants. Truth be told, he doesn’t look like he belongs in here.
A pause.
“I didn’t do it,” he blurts out suddenly.
I arch a brow. “Didn’t do what?”
Clay’s throat bobs. “Whatever they say I did.”
I smirk. “Yeah?” You and everyone else in here, buddy. We’re a bunch of innocent degenerates in here. I don’t tell him what I’m really thinking. “I didn’t do it, either.”
His face twists like he knows I’m being a moron and he wants to argue, but he just mutters, somewhat defeated, “I really didn’t.”
I don’t press. It’s not my business. This is prison, and everyone’s got their secrets. I’m just here for the short term, to do my job and leave.
I finish my bread in silence, Clay picking at his food across from me. The mess hall hums around us, but nobody else comes near. The big man made sure of that.
“How long you been in here?” I ask him.
“Four days,” he says, though his voice breaks as he delivers the words. Like he can’t even believe it himself.
“And what are you in here for?”
“Murder.”
Clay leans in, his voice low, eyes darting around as if someone might be listening in. “I didn’t do it.”
I let out a short breath through my nose. “Yeah? What exactly didn’t you do?”
He licks his lips, his fingers twitching against the edge of his tray. “The murder they pinned on me. I never even met the guy. Never been to the place where it happened. I got no reason—no goddamn motive—but somehow, my name pops up in the investigation, and here I am.”
His voice has an edge of desperation, but there’s something else, too. Like he’s waiting for me to believe him, to nod and tell him it’s all a mistake. But I’ve been around long enough to know that no one in here is innocent. At least, not completely.
“That’s a hell of a story,” I say, watching him.
Clay’s knee bounces under the table. He tells me he’s twenty-seven, but the way he moves, the way his nerves play out in every twitch of his hands, makes him seem younger. He’s too green for a place like this.
“You strung out?” I ask, squinting at him. “Junkie?”
His head jerks back, and he shakes it quickly. “What? No. I don’t touch that shit.”
I’m not convinced, but I don’t push it. Instead, I shift my gaze to the table across the room where Scar-Chin and his friends sit, eyes burning into me with unspoken threats. I tilt my chin in their direction. “They give you the royal treatment when you got here, too?”
Clay follows my gaze but quickly looks away, color draining from his face when Scar-Chin shoots him a death stare. “No,” he mutters. “I think that was just reserved for you.”
I smirk. Figures.
“And what about the big guy?” I ask, referring to the guy who came to my rescue earlier. “Who’s he?”
Clay shifts uncomfortably. “Ghost. He’s a lifer.”
Ah. Just the man I’m here for.
“Harsh.”
“Truth,” he mutters. “He’s never getting out. Ever. You really don’t know him? Serial killer. Made all the headlines.”
“I don’t watch the news,” I say, casually picking at my bread. “I make my own.”
That much is true. What I don’t tell Clay is that I know exactly who Ghost is. He is the media’s obsession, an enigma wrapped in brutality. Women across the country call him the gentle giant , lured in by his massive build and sharp features, an air of mystery following him everywhere he goes.
Convicted of fourteen murders on paper-thin evidence, Ghost maintains his innocence, and he isn’t alone. Multiple women testified that there was no way he was the man who had stalked, raped, and killed those victims. Not a damn chance.
The thing that sealed his fate? Three different women—none of whom had ever met each other—all swearing up and down that they were with him on the night of the last murder. Problem was, they each lived in different states. Their good intentions ultimately put the noose around his neck.
Since the day he was locked up, Ghost has been appealing his conviction, trying to claw his way out of the grave the system buried him in. But he’s a ghost in here now, a shadow moving through the prison walls. And no one fucks with him, because no one wants to disappear.
I shift my gaze to where Ghost sits, surrounded by his people—Latinos built like tanks, their muscles etched with ink, skin telling stories of the lives they’ve lived and the blood they’ve spilled. They don’t eat like the rest of us. They command the space around them, their presence stretching beyond the confines of the table.
One of them catches me watching. He leans in, murmurs something to Ghost.
Ghost turns, his movements slow, deliberate. His gaze locks onto mine, hard and assessing, as if peeling back my skin and peering into the depths of my soul, searching for something only he can see.
I don’t look away.
The moment stretches, taut and expectant, before Ghost finally exhales, his expression unreadable. He shifts in his seat, mutters something low to his crew, and goes back to his meal. Whatever test I just went through, I guess I passed.
Clay lets out a breath. “You got guts staring him down like that. Most guys in here won’t even breathe when they’re in the same room with him.”
“I don’t scare easy,” I say, popping a piece of stale bread into my mouth.
Clay gives a nervous chuckle, still bouncing his leg under the table. “Yeah, well… you might need that in here.”