CHAPTER 07

Elijah Vaughn

After catching my breath, still tasting the acid burning in my throat, he pulled me into a bathroom. I immediately recognized it as one reserved for the guards.

"Rinse your mouth and make it quick. If we get caught here, it’ll cost us."

I swallowed hard and did as he said. I splashed water into my mouth, spat, and washed my face, trying to shake off the suffocating feeling of what had just happened. My hands trembled as the cold water ran over them, but there was no room for weakness.

He tapped my shoulder, hurrying me out.

We returned to the prison corridor without exchanging a word. The heavy scent of metal and sweat hung in the air. Fear still gripped every part of me, while I remained numb, staring at everything as if it were just another ordinary day.

"Now I’ll show you the prison. The places you can go… and the ones you should avoid." His voice stayed neutral but firm.

The first stop was a massive laundry room. The sharp smell of detergent mixed with the acidic stench of dirty clothes filled my nose. Inmates scrubbed garments by hand in stained basins, while others stacked bundles of uniforms ready for redistribution. Some worked tirelessly on impossible stains, taking turns carrying baskets of dirty clothes and organizing the clean ones.

"This is where the uniforms get washed. Everyone has to work in some area, and this is one of the main ones. If you want to stay out of trouble, it’s an option. But the work is exhausting."

We passed a group wringing out a soaked orange uniform. One of them looked up, his face hard, then returned to work without a word.

We moved on to a wide room where dozens of inmates sat at wooden tables. Some were sewing, others cutting fabric or sorting piles of uniforms.

"This is the sewing section. Here, clothes are mended, new uniforms are made, and sometimes even the guards' gear is repaired."

A skinny prisoner focused intently on stitching a black uniform. His nimble hands ignored the noise around him. He gave a small nod when acknowledged, then went right back to work.

"If you know how to sew, you could try working here. But be careful. It’s easy to get cut with needles and scissors. And if someone wants to hurt you, they can do it without the guards noticing."

We continued through a long hallway to the maintenance sector. Men scrubbed the floors, cleaned hallways, and worked on rusty plumbing.

"The cleaning crew keeps the bathrooms and hallways in shape. It’s hard labor, but it keeps your mind busy."

"Do the guards force everyone to work?" I asked, still trying to take it all in.

He let out a short laugh.

"Not exactly. But if you don’t have a job, they’ll find one for you… and it won’t always be something you’ll like. And if you get hurt, your destination might be the infirmary. But don’t be fooled, rookie; that place isn’t safe. Some fake illness to escape work; others are dragged there after violent fights. If you’re alone and vulnerable… well, don’t count on the guards to protect you."

A chill ran down my spine. The message was clear: nowhere here is safe.

We walked down a dark, filthy hallway until he stopped abruptly, his expression more serious than before.

"This is where you don’t want to go." He pointed to a metal door with two locks. "That’s solitary confinement. If you get thrown in there, you could spend days or weeks without seeing sunlight. Some come out completely broken."

I swallowed hard.

"And that one?" I asked, pointing to the door beside it.

He hesitated for a moment before answering.

"That’s the black-uniform wing. It’s where the real monsters live. If you’ve got even a shred of survival instinct, stay far away."

My stomach turned to ice.

"And… him?" My voice came out low, trembling.

He looked away for a second before nodding.

"Yes. That’s where the Reaper sleeps."

The weight of those words settled heavily on me.

He didn’t explain anything else—just kept walking.

After a few moments, he stopped and sighed.

"There are a few more things you need to know about this place."

He looked around, making sure no one was close enough to hear.

"Inside here, everything has a price. There’s a black market where cigarettes, extra food, medicine—even improvised weapons—are traded. Sometimes the guards are involved, turning a blind eye in exchange for favors. If you need something, you can get it… but never for free. And if you owe someone, you will pay. One way or another."

I swallowed hard again.

The idea of having to negotiate even for basic needs only added to the dread building inside me.

"Besides the factions, there are gangs. Small groups try to stick together to improve their chances, but most get absorbed or wiped out by stronger ones. The bigger groups control entire sections of the prison, with power nearly equal to the guards. Staying alone for too long guarantees one thing: becoming a target."

Being alone suddenly didn’t seem like the best idea anymore.

"But above any gang, there’s one uncontested authority behind these walls: the Reaper. He doesn’t care what the others do, as long as no one touches what belongs to him. The guards respect him. The inmates fear him. He doesn’t need followers—because to him, everyone’s already under his rule."

We passed a group gathered around an improvised table, playing with worn-out cards. One held a pack of cigarettes, another a piece of bread.

"And the illegal games? Some play just to kill time, but others gamble valuable things. Cigarettes, food, favors… even people. If you lose too much, you might become part of the bet. And cheating? If they catch you, you could be killed on the spot. I’ve seen it happen."

Another shiver ran down my spine.

"Anything else?" I asked, absorbing every detail of the hell I was now trapped in.

He stopped in front of an iron door with a small opening. His gaze turned colder.

"Punishment cells. Unlike solitary, where you might eventually come out, the punishment cell is a bottomless pit. Whoever goes in rarely comes out. Some die in there without anyone even noticing. So do yourself a favor—don’t give them a reason to throw you in."

My whole body tensed. Every corner of this prison seemed designed to crush any trace of humanity.

"Anything more?" I asked, hoping the tour was finally over.

He gave a dry chuckle.

"You know, most people think working in the kitchen is bad. Trust me, it could be much worse. Some are forced to carry heavy loads, unload trucks, or clean out sewage. Others end up being used by guards for personal errands… and not the kind you’d expect. Around here, you don’t get to choose your fate. If someone decides you’re going to do something, you do it. Or you pay the price."

The lump in my throat tightened.

Every word only reinforced one thing: Inferno Bay wasn’t just a prison.

It was pure cruelty.