Chapter 7 - Shadows Behind BarsStateville Correctional Center didn't care about designer suits, high-society galas, or how many millions your family had donated to charity. Within its towering concrete walls and razor-wire fences, currency was measured in commissary packs, muscle, and absolute survival.
Preston Whitmore sat on the edge of a thin, lumpy metal cot in Cell Block B, staring blankly at the peeling gray paint of the wall across from him.
The silence of his custom penthouse suite was replaced by a relentless, soul-crushing symphony of clanging iron bars, echoing shouts, and the heavy, rhythmic thuds of boots on concrete.
"Hey, fresh fish," a gruff voice rasped from the neighboring cell. "I saw your mug on the prison television yesterday. The golden boy. The trust-fund baby who thought he could crack a little girl's head open because his ego got bruised."
Preston didn't answer. He curled his knees up to his chest, trembling beneath scratchy wool blankets. His hands—once manicured and accustomed to signing million-dollar contracts—were raw and blistered from the mandatory prison labor detail he’d been assigned to at dawn.
Just then, the heavy steel door of his cell buzzed loudly and clicked open.
A towering inmate with broad shoulders and a jagged scar cutting across his left cheek stepped inside, blocking the only source of light. It was Marcus, one of the prison's most feared enforcers, a man doing twenty years for armed robbery.
Preston scrambled backward until his spine hit the cold stone wall. "What... what do you want? I don't have anything. I swear, my accounts are frozen!"
Marcus let out a dark, booming laugh that echoed down the tier.
"Relax, Whitmore," Marcus said, leaning down until his face was inches from Preston’s terrified eyes. "Your old man isn't here to bail you out. Your lawyers can't file an injunction against reality. But word travels fast in here. The guys on your block were talking... they were wondering how a coward who hits eight-year-old girls handles himself when there are no cameras around to catch it."
"Please," Preston whimpered, tears spilling over his lower eyelids. "Just leave me alone."
May you like
Marcus grabbed the collar of Preston’s orange jumpsuit, hauling him effortlessly to his feet. "Welcome to the real world, golden boy. Time to pay your dues."
As the cell door slammed shut, locking him into his nightmare, Preston finally understood the absolute horror of a life without protection, without excuses, and without escape.
