The prison's intake process was a blur of paperwork and cold commands. When it was done, Bruce Chen, his name now little more than a number, was marched through echoing corridors and thrust into his cell.
Seven men already occupied the cramped space. They were hulking figures, their muscles straining against thin prison uniforms, faces etched with scars and the hard lines of violence. As Bruce, slender and pale, stepped inside, their eyes raked over him with predatory amusement. Cold, mocking smiles curled on their lips, a silent promise of cruelty.
The guard's boots clanged away, leaving Bruce alone in the den of wolves. The men wasted no time. They closed in, forming a tight circle that pressed the air from the room. The leader, a man with a jagged scar slashing down his cheek, sized Bruce up with a sneer.
"So, kid," he growled, his voice rough as gravel, "what'd you do to end up here?"
Bruce's voice was barely a whisper, trembling with fear and shame. "I… I was framed…"
Bruce didn't finish. The Scarred Man's fist shot out, burying itself in Bruce's stomach. Agony exploded through his body, white-hot and blinding. He doubled over, retching, the taste of bile burning his throat.
A heavy boot pressed down on Bruce's head, grinding his face into the filthy floor. "Bullshit," Scar spat. "Nobody comes in here for nothing. You better learn the rules, fast."
He barked another question, voice sharp as a whip. "I asked you a question, answer straight, or you'll regret it."
Tears stung Bruce's eyes. "I swear, I'm innocent…"
The Scarred Man's patience snapped. "Still got a hard mouth, huh? Boys, teach him a lesson!"
The gang descended on Bruce, fists and boots raining down. He was pinned, battered, his face swelling and bruised, blood trickling from split lips and nostrils. When they finally dragged his limp body back to Scar's feet, the man pressed his boot down again.
"I'll ask one more time. Why are you here?"
Even through the haze of pain, Bruce's stubbornness flared. He clenched his jaw, voice hoarse but steady. "I was framed. I didn't do it."
Scar's face twisted with rage. "Not enough, huh? String him up!"
Rough hands bound Bruce's wrists with a bedsheet and hoisted him up beside the bunk. For over an hour, the men took turns beating him, their blows relentless. Bruce's world shrank to a blur of agony and humiliation, but he never changed his story. Even when consciousness slipped away, he clung to his innocence.
They didn't dare kill him. Eventually, they let him drop to the floor, a battered heap.
From that day, Bruce became the cell's scapegoat. Scar and his crew treated him like less than human. The smallest provocation, a wrong look, a misplaced word, earned him a slap or a savage beating. He was a target, a punching bag, his spirit battered as much as his body.
Desperate, Bruce tried to report the abuse to the guards. One of Scar's lackeys was punished, but the retribution was swift and brutal. That night, they hung Bruce up again, beating him until he nearly lost his life. After that, he learned to keep his head down, to avoid Scar's gaze, to make himself invisible.
His only hope was that his parents would clear his name, would somehow rescue him from this hell on earth.
Three months crawled by in a haze of fear and pain. Lately, a new anxiety gnawed at Bruce's heart. His parents hadn't visited in over a month. Their visits were the only bright spots in his darkness, marked on the calendar and counted down to with desperate hope. They never missed a visit, never, until now.
Worry twisted inside him, sharper than any fist. He knew his parents would never abandon him. Had something happened to them? The question haunted his every waking moment, a shadow he couldn't escape.