5. Chapter 5
Islipped two Tums onto my tongue, working them over as I walked to soothe the sharp burn rising in my throat.
It was the predictable penalty for swapping a real breakfast for black coffee after drinking wine the night before and irritating my acid reflux. Water would have done me far better, but I’d chosen caffeine, anyway.
As soon as Tobias saw me approaching the gates the next morning, he sighed–not the usual Elara-is-late-again sigh, either.
The iron gates of Blackthorne loomed behind him, slick with early morning mist. Guards moved across the courtyard in sharper formations than usual. There was more tension. Even the air felt wrong.
I reached for my badge. Tobias barely looked at it. After this many years, he probably recognized my footsteps.
“You’re in for a real mess today, Elara.”
My hand paused halfway back to my tunic.
“What happened?”
His eyes flicked past me to another staff worker was approaching the checkpoint. He shifted his weight. That alone made my pulse jump. Tobias Mercer was not a man who got easily uncomfortable.
“I’m sure someone will brief you,” he muttered. “Good luck.”
He nodded once.
I stared. Was that…Concern? Respect? Pity? Whatever it was, it didn’t belong between us. Tobias usually treated me like an overworked younger sister who made questionable life choices.
The knot in my stomach tightened. I knew working with The Jester was going to be complicated. Maybe even dangerous. I had spent half the night buried in his file, reading about riots, broken prisons, and cities left unraveling in his wake.
But still…
How bad could one person really be?
Tobias hadn’t been exaggerating. If anything, he’d undersold it.
It was a bloodbath.
Apparently, during a transfer to the interrogation room yesterday evening, the Jester showed his true teeth. Four guards weren't enough to hold him. He escaped, killed the guards, and tore off the Detective’s ear before anyone could call for help.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking, sloshing soapy water over the rim of the bucket as I lugged it down the corridor, my mop balanced in my other hand.
The sharp, chemical sting of pine soap and other biohazard cleaning supplies was meant to sanitize, but it did nothing to mask the sour taste of my own nerves.
Behind me, the synchronized, heavy thud of boots reminded me I wasn't alone. Three guards I’d never seen before trailed my every step like shadows.
"We’ll be right outside the door," the closest one murmured, his voice tight. "He's locked down securely with zero range of motion."
"But if you see so much as a twitch that looks wrong," the second one added, "don't hesitate to let us know."
I managed a nod, forcing out a fractured, "Thank you."
But nothing could have prepared me for the corridor. The cement floor was layered with coagulated blood—a thick, slick layer of it that stole my footing. My boots slipped, and I lunged sideways, gripping the cold iron of an empty cell to keep from crashing face-first into the mess.
I swore under my breath as I stared at the dark, gelatinous sea.
This wasn't a "soap and warm water" kind of spill.
You don't just mop up blood like spilled milk; I had to break it down, destroy its structure, and I’d have to flood the stone with heavy bleach just to kill whatever pathogens were cooking in it, then get down with a scraper and a squeegee to scoop the jelly into biohazard bags.
If I used a mop now, the fibers would just clog and smear the mess across the floor.
Only after the bulk was bagged could I flood the porous concrete with enzyme cleaner to digest the remaining proteins and iron out of the cement.
In other words, it was going to take at least 2 to 4 hours of stiff-bristled scrubbing and a specialized wet-vac just to make the corridor breathable again.
I forced myself forward until I stood before the Jester's threshold.
The guard slid the key home, and the lock disengaged, the door whining on rusted hinges as it groaned open.
I caught the guard's eye—finding only grim pity there—before I stepped inside.
My hand shook, jarring the wagon of cleaning supplies against the frame.
The sheer amount of blood inside the cell made my breath catch. It was everywhere—splattered in violent, frenzied bursts against the brick, pooling in the corners, painting the room in a grotesque, copper-scented nightmare.
Then, I looked at him.
Behind a smooth, expressionless white mask, two dark eyes locked onto mine.
Dark hair was slicked back from his face, save for a few jagged strands weeping down over the white plastic.
Caged by three thick chains wrapped brutally around his waist, wrists, and ankles, he looked surprisingly vulnerable.
But the stark black-and-white lines of his uniform were painted crimson, drenched in a horrific tapestry of gore.
Most of which was not his own.
I forced my eyes away, tearing my gaze from the mask. He’s just a prisoner, I lied to myself, a mantra to keep my heart from bursting out of my ribs. Just another inmate, just another mess. I directed my attention downward, focusing on the task at hand.
I looked from the gelatinous sea on the floor to the prisoner slumped in the corner.
Why the hell was he still in here? The heavy bleach solution I was about to flood the floor with would turn this tiny box into a gas chamber.
The sanitation soak alone required twenty minutes of dwell time—twenty minutes of breathing in toxic, burning vapor trapped in a tight space.
I looked over my shoulder. "The inmate needs to be moved to a dry cell. I can't start pouring chemicals with anyone else in the room."
The guards returned to the door, their boots halting right at the edge of the threshold.
They looked at the dark, gelatinous sea coating the floor, then up at the prisoner slumped in the corner.
Neither of them made a move to step inside.
They hesitated, their knuckles whitening on their batons as they eyed the Jester like a ticking bomb.
"Don't you even think about it, Jester," one muttered.
Moving with tense, jerky coordination, they finally stepped in, keeping their distance as they unlocked his heavy chains from the wall.
The moment the metal clanked free, they grabbed him by the arms and hauled him out, practically dragging the Jester across the corridor and throwing him into the empty cell across the hallway.
Now alone with the mess, I didn’t waste any time.
Reaching into my utility kit, I pulled out my heavy-duty respirator mask, pulling the thick rubber straps over my head until the seal suctioned tight against my face.
My breath immediately sounded loud and mechanical in my ears, muffled by the filters.
I hoisted the pressurized canister of industrial disinfectant, pumping the handle until the hose hummed with pressure.
I pointed the nozzle at the far corner and squeezed the trigger.
A harsh, fine mist blanketed the room, sizzling instantly as it hit the clotted blood.
Even through the filters of my mask, the sharp, chemical sting of bleach cut through, hitting the back of my throat as the spray began to deactivate the pathogens.
The dark red pools turned a sickening, foamy pink where the chemicals began their work, releasing a hot, metallic vapor into the cramped air of the cell.
Once every inch of the floor was drowning in the wet sheen, I let go of the trigger. I raised my wrist, pressing a button on my heavy tactical watch. The digital numbers blinked, starting a strict twenty-minute countdown.
Twenty minutes of waiting for the chemicals to sanitize the remnants of the slaughter. Twenty minutes where I was trapped right outside the Jester's new cage, with nothing to do but watch him through the bars.
Yet, through every movement I made, I felt him.
His gaze was a physical weight in the small room, a localized pressure that crawled along the back of my neck.
Every report I’d devoured on the Jester warned of his psychological cruelty—how he loved to poke, prod, and dismantle his victims with words before he ever touched them.
The silence stretching between us was a taut wire waiting to snap, and yet the minutes bled by without a single sound.
Once the sanitation soak wrapped up, the clock dissolved into a blur of scraping, bagging, and heavy scrubbing.
I worked with a familiar efficiency, letting the familiar, mindless muscle memory take over.
If I didn’t look up, I could almost pretend I was anywhere else.
There had always been an odd, quiet solace in cleaning cells—a morbid satisfaction in watching a horror story get erased, stroke by stroke, until nothing remained but damp concrete.
It took me two separate breaks just to stop my arms from shaking, but eventually, the deafening roar of the wet-vac was pulling the last of the foamy, pinkish residue from the stone.
One final, thorough rinse of the concrete, and the cell was officially, mercifully done.
I surveyed my work, and when I was satisfied, I gave the guards a nod, to which they retrieved the Jester and dragged him back into his now clean cell.
As the guards stepped past me to leave, I glanced back at the prisoner and muttered, “Try to keep it on the walls next time. It’s bad for the grout.”
The moment the words left my mouth, my stomach bottomed out.
A cold spike of adrenaline hit my veins.
I spun on my heel just as the heavy cell door shrieked open, scrambling to get out so fast that my knee smashed against the iron frame.
The pain flared up my leg, but I barely felt it.
Even the guard gave me a sideways glance as I lunged past him into the corridor, my jaw clenched so tightly the bone ached.
What the hell was I thinking?
The Detective’s warnings echoed in my head, loud and damning. Don’t engage with him. Don’t talk to him. Don’t even look at him.
On day one of my new assignment, I had broken every single rule.
I dragged my heavy, trembling boots down the long hallway. I had survived the Jester’s cell, but a sickening realization settled deep in my chest.
I had given him a reason to remember my face.