2. Chapter 2
Ihad only seen the Warden once in all my years working at Blackthorne. People like me didn’t meet staff like him regularly. We heard stories and saw the aftermath, but we kept our heads down and hoped to never be important enough to warrant his attention.
Warden Victor Cromwell was conventionally attractive in the way powerful people often seemed to be. Not that it mattered–I doubted men like him noticed cleaners who spent their days scrubbing blood from cement.
His dark hair was pulled neatly back from his face, revealing the sharp elegance of his high cheekbones and symmetrical features.
The last time I’d seen him had been five years ago. I wracked my brain for why…then I recalled the revolt. Prisoners had overtaken part of the middle levels after weapons were smuggled in through supply crates. Half the prison had descended into chaos before security managed to crush it.
The Warden had stayed at Blackthorne for two straight days afterward.
For us, there was no rest, no leaving–just endless inspections and enough dismissals to leave the staff worried for weeks.
People who missed details lost jobs. People who cut corners disappeared from the payroll by sunrise.
I had spent those days slipping through the halls like a ghost, terrified that if he looked at me for more than a second, I’d be next.
The office door shut behind me. I tried not to flinch.
The room itself was unsurprisingly bare—no lavish decorations, no unnecessary comforts.
Just a sturdy wooden desk, a single plain lamp, neat stacks of papers, a container of pens, and folders arranged with unsettling precision.
The ceiling suddenly felt lower than it had outside—maybe because the Warden was much taller than I remembered.
He loomed beside the desk. The dark uniform of Blackthorne fit him too well, emphasizing narrow hips and broad shoulders.
His eyes lifted the moment I entered. They swept over me once–documenting the worn cleaning uniform, the scraggly ends of my braid, the broom still clutched in my hand.
I became painfully aware of my own size.
I was 5’ 2” short on a good day, so standing in front of a ridiculously tall Warden who ran the most feared prison in Pennsylvania made me feel downright ridiculous.
My fingers tightened around the broom handle.
Why had he called me here?
The Warden didn’t immediately speak. Instead, he reached for one of the ledgers stacked neatly on his desk and opened it with practiced precision.
My stomach sank.
Records.
Wonderful.
“Please sit, Miss Hart.”
There was only one chair in the room, tucked opposite his desk. I lowered myself into it carefully, setting my broom against my knee while trying very hard not to look like someone awaiting execution.
His eyes remained on the page.
“How long have you worked at Blackthorne?”
“Eight years.”
“Eight years,” he repeated quietly. “You joined at 22 years-old.”
“Yes, sir.”
His gaze lifted.
“Do you remember your first assignment?”
Unfortunately.
A flash of memory hit me immediately. I recalled blood, a vomiting fit in the corridor, and my supervisor telling me that if I couldn’t handle the sight of death, I should find another job.
“The lower east corridors,” I answered. “Cleaning rotation.”
“And in your first month, how many prisoners were killed?”
“Six.”
One corner of his mouth almost moved.
“Four.”
Heat climbed my neck.
Right. Four. Big difference.
He looked back down at the ledger.
“You have remained employed longer than most in your position.” His finger traced a line across the page. “Your supervisors describe you as quiet and thorough.”
My shoulders loosened a fraction.
Then he continued.
“You also have four late notices.”
My soul left my body. His eyes lifted again.
“But no disciplinary actions beyond that.”
My soul returned. Barely.
“I know,” I muttered before I could stop myself. “I’m working on the late thing.”
“I’m aware.”
Something about the answer made me straighten. My fingers curled tighter around the fabric of my tunic. The Warden closed the ledger.
“How do you feel about your work here, Miss Hart?”
The question hit even harder than the others.
“How do I…”
He waited. I shifted awkwardly in my seat.
“It pays.”
It was not a lie. His expression didn’t change.
“And?”
“It’s… stable. I’m good at it, I think. I know the facility. I know the routines.” I almost stopped there, but then I added, “I don’t love it, but I need it.”
The room went quiet. Slowly, the clock hanging above the Warden's head ticked, ticked, ticked. Then he folded his hands.
“Last night, Blackthorne received a new prisoner who arrived under special transfer orders. Security classifications were adjusted and several wings were cleared for safety purposes.”
My mouth had gone dry. The Warden’s dark eyes settled on me.
“I want you to be assigned to his cell.”
I stared. For a second I genuinely thought I had misheard.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
My voice came out smaller than I intended.
“Why?”
The Warden held my gaze for another moment before stepping around the desk.
“You have worked at Blackthorne for eight years. You have cleaned every level assigned to civilian staff. You have worked riots, transfers, deaths, and containment incidents.”
My stomach twisted at the last one.
“You have put in very few leave requests. You have had no formal complaints.”
Great.
“Four late notices.”
Wonderful.
“And again, no disciplinary actions beyond that.”
“I don’t understand what any of that has to do with this new prisoner?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“We keep records.”
My brows knitted together.
“Records?”
“Staff exposure to violence, fatalities, psychological strain. Despite what you may think, Miss Hart, your position is not for everyone. Most cleaners assigned to lower containment request reassignment within six months.”
“Six months?”
“Yes.”
I had been here eight years.
“And yet, you stayed,” he said simply.
I swallowed, needing to justify it for some reason. “I needed the job.”
He moved back toward the desk.
“The prisoner we received last night is considered unusually high risk. I need someone who can tolerate discomfort, remain observant, and continue functioning under pressure.”
“You think that’s me?”
His eyes met mine again.
“I know it is.”
Heat crept into my face.
“I still don’t understand why I need to see them.”
He leaned back against the edge of the mahogany desk, crossing his arms. “Because he has killed three seasoned guards in the intake facility alone. He isolates a person's weakness, and he picks at it until they make a mistake.”
A heavy silence settled between us.
“You, Miss Hart, have spent years cleaning up the worst horrors this facility has to offer. You’ve scrubbed the blood of inmates who thought they could fight the system, and you’ve walked away unphased. Your skin is thicker than the concrete walls downstairs.”
“Shouldn't they have a man to do it? Someone who can actually hold their own if he decides to… snap?”
“If he decides to snap, a few extra pounds of muscle won't save anyone. The transport files show his violence isn't personal. It isn’t a motivated kill, and he doesn't discriminate between men and women. To him, a body is just an obstacle."
Lovely.
"You are the least threatening staff member in this entire facility. He expects a brute in tactical gear who is waiting for a fight. When he looks at you, he will see a cleaner and likely underestimate you.”
That sounded suspiciously like a terrible idea. I opened my mouth to object again, but the Warden spoke first.
“There will be additional compensation.”
I froze.
“…Compensation?”
“A bonus.”
The word hit harder than it should have.
Then, very quietly, I murmured, “I didn’t know there were bonuses here.”
The corner of his mouth raised into a small smile.
“There usually aren’t. But this prisoner is a special case.”
My stomach sank again. Right. Of course it had. Nothing about this sounded good. A special prisoner, special security, special assignment, and special pay. In Blackthorne, special usually meant someone had already started writing your obituary.
“Do I have time to consider it?”
“You do, and you will not be penalized if you refuse.”
Some of the tension eased from my shoulders.
“But if you accept,” he continued, “the remainder of your shift today will be reassigned. You’ll meet with a detective attached to the case. They will brief you on the prisoner, expected procedures, containment protocols, and any relevant history.”
My hopes sank lower with every word. Relevant history.
“Tomorrow you will go off duty and review the files provided. The day after tomorrow will be your first assignment with the prisoner.”
A full day away from Blackthorne. I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened since I rarely took PTO. My pulse had become unbearably loud. I could hear it in my ears–feel it in my throat.
Extra pay shouldn’t have mattered this much.
It wasn’t like I dreamed of fancy dresses or fancy furnishings for my living space.
I dreamed of boring things—a full pantry, not checking my coin purse before buying bread, fixing the leak above my window, and maybe even to replacing the chair in my apartment that threatened collapse every time I sat in it.
Pathetic dreams, yet still dreams.
The Warden watched me from across the desk. Then, he lowered himself into his chair. The movement felt strangely final.
“You have one hour to decide.”
Damn, that's not a lot of time.
“One hour?”
“It is all I can spare. That will be all for now, Miss Hart.”
I pushed to my feet so quickly the chair scraped against the floor. Another wave of nausea rolled through me but not from the wine this time. I grabbed my broom.
“Okay,” I managed. “Thank you, sir.”
I turned toward the door. My hand had just reached the handle when his voice stopped me.
“You would do well in the assignment.”
I froze.
“You underestimate yourself,” he murmured.
Then he returned to the papers on his desk, as though he hadn’t just rearranged something inside my chest.
“Dismissed.”
I left the office more unsettled than when I entered.