The block smelled the same, sounded the same, but it felt different now.
The whispers weren't about how long Jayden had left before max. They were about how he was still standing. Spider avoided eye contact for once. Rico glared, jaw wired tight, his pride still bruised from the yard.
But Jayden knew better than to think this was victory. This was breathing space — nothing more.
At night, lying on the thin mattress, he felt the fire pulsing under his ribs like a second heartbeat. Control didn't mean calm; it meant holding back the explosion every second of every day. Dre's voice floated through the wall:
"Don't get cocky, Scrap. That 'reprieve' they gave you? It's paper thin. One slip, and they'll throw it out."
Jayden didn't answer. He was sketching in the dark, the pencil scratching faintly. A small figure, hands chained, but with a torch hidden behind its back. Above it he wrote: Still mine.
The next morning, the guards eyed him like vultures waiting for the first stumble. Breakfast was watery oatmeal, tray slammed on the counter harder than usual. When Jayden didn't react, one muttered, "See how long that lasts."
It wasn't just the guards. The other kids tested him too. One bumped his shoulder in line. Another whispered that Dre couldn't always protect him. Jayden clenched his fists, forced himself to breathe until his chest hurt.
At recreation, Spider finally slid up beside him, smile sharp again.
"You think you won," Spider said softly.
Jayden kept walking the track, eyes forward. "I think I'm still here."
Spider chuckled, low and poisonous. "That's temporary. Max is still waiting, fire-boy. When you get there, nobody's gonna be whispering your name. You'll be nothing. Less than nothing."
For the first time, Jayden didn't snap back. He just kept walking. Each step was its own battle, but the silence said more than words.
That night, Dre tapped the wall, slow and deliberate.
"You're learning," he said.
Jayden turned his sketchbook to a blank page, pressed the pencil down until the tip snapped. He whispered into the dark:
"I don't want to just survive. I want out."
The word hung in the cell like contraband — dangerous, heavy, but alive.