t’s 1999, and I’m twenty-four now—still counting birthdays behind bars since I was eighteen. I’m the “perfect” inmate: no trouble, no fights, no complaints. That’s what keeps me breathing. My name’s Evan Carter, and at Greystone Correctional, being quiet is the closest thing to safety.
Every month, the Governor’s wife, Marlene Whitaker, comes through like she owns the place—which, in a way, she does. She wears pearls and perfume that doesn’t belong near concrete. She stops at the bars like she’s shopping.
“Good boys get privileges,” she says, smiling. Then she lowers her voice, soft as a hymn and twice as dangerous. “Stay obedient. Stay silent. Maybe you’ll be released early.”
I’d heard it so many times the words barely landed—until she added the part she saved for when cameras weren’t around.
“But if anyone reveals the secret,” she whispered, eyes locked on mine, “they vanish forever.”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink. That’s the trick. In here, you can’t show fear like it’s a weakness you’re offering up.
But I knew exactly what she meant.
The first time an inmate “vanished,” they blamed a transfer. The second time, they blamed a fight. The third time, they stopped bothering with explanations. Men just disappeared—usually the ones who filed grievances, wrote letters, or talked about what they’d seen in the infirmary after lights-out.
I’d seen it too.
I worked laundry—cleaning uniforms, sheets, medical linens. The kind of job that teaches you what people want hidden: blood that didn’t come from a fight, restraints that left bruises in patterns, a white coat tossed into the wrong hamper with a name stitched inside. Dr. Keene.
The secret wasn’t a ghost story. It was a system.
Two weeks before my birthday, Ray Lopez slid onto the bench beside me in the yard and didn’t bother with small talk. Ray was older, sharp-eyed, the kind of guy who’d survived by noticing everything.
“You ever wonder why the Governor’s wife visits the cell blocks?” he asked.
“To remind us she can,” I said.
Ray’s laugh was dry. “Nah. She’s counting inventory.”
“Inmates aren’t inventory,” I said, even as the words tasted like a lie.
Ray leaned closer. “They’re running a pipeline. Medical experiments. Contracts. Grants. Money. And the ones who threaten it? They disappear.”
My heart kicked hard once, then steadied. “You got proof?”
Ray tapped his shirt pocket. “Names. Dates. A ledger. And I need someone clean to get it out.”
I stared at his pocket like it was a live wire. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the perfect inmate,” he said. “You’re invisible.”
That night, after final count, my cell door clicked open—quiet, wrong. A guard I’d never seen before stood in the gap and said, “Carter. Dress out. Now.”
I stepped into the hallway—and saw Marlene Whitaker at the far end, waiting. Smiling.
“Happy early birthday, Evan,” she called. “Let’s talk about what you think you know.”
And then the lights went out.
The blackout didn’t feel accidental. It felt planned—like a curtain dropping right on cue.
A flashlight beam cut across the corridor, and the new guard shoved me forward. “Move.”
My stomach tightened. No radios crackled. No other doors opened. Just my footsteps and the soft click of Marlene Whitaker’s heels somewhere ahead.
“Stop,” she said.
The guard pushed me into a side room that smelled like disinfectant and cold metal. It wasn’t an interrogation room. It looked like a storage closet that had been cleaned too well—no dust, no clutter, just a table, two chairs, and a sink. The kind of place meant for things that didn’t need records.
Marlene sat first, folding her hands like she was about to conduct a parent-teacher conference. “Evan Carter,” she said, tasting my name. “Laundry. Model behavior. No visitors. No problems.”
I stayed standing. “Why am I here?”
“Because you’re smart,” she replied. “Smart enough to know you don’t want to be brave.”
The guard closed the door behind me. The lock sounded final.
Marlene nodded toward the chair. “Sit.”
I sat.
She leaned in, voice low. “Ray Lopez has been asking questions. That’s disappointing. But what worries me is that he found someone who listens.”
I felt my throat go tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She smiled wider. “You do. And you also know what happens to men who insist on becoming heroes.” Her gaze flicked to the sink. “Do you know how quickly bleach ruins evidence?”
The guard shifted behind me. I could hear his breathing.
Marlene’s tone softened like she was doing me a favor. “Here’s the deal. You tell me what Ray has. Where it is. Who he told. And I make sure you keep enjoying your… peaceful incarceration.”
“And if I don’t?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Then you’ll be transferred to a facility you’ve never heard of, under a name you’ve never had. The paperwork will be spotless. Your mother will get a letter saying you died of pneumonia. And the world will keep spinning.”
My mouth went dry. I pictured my mom, Linda Carter, still sending one postcard a month even after my letters stopped getting responses. I pictured her opening that letter.
“Ray didn’t give me anything,” I lied.
Marlene sighed, almost bored. “You’re loyal. That’s admirable.”
She stood and walked behind me, close enough that her perfume clung to my skin. “Loyalty is expensive in here, Evan. Usually paid in pieces.”
The guard grabbed my shoulder, hard.
Then a voice came through the door—muffled but urgent. “Captain wants you. Now.”
The guard hesitated.
Marlene paused, irritation flashing across her face. “Tell him I’m busy.”
“Ma’am, he said it’s an emergency,” the voice insisted. “Lopez—he’s in the infirmary. He’s bleeding. Bad.”
The room went still.
Marlene’s eyes snapped to mine, and for the first time, her calm looked thin. “What did he do?” she hissed, not to me—like she was speaking to the building itself.
I stood before the guard could stop me. “Let me see him.”
Marlene stepped in front of the door. “No.”
“Then he dies,” I said. “And if he dies tonight, people will ask questions.”
Her smile returned, colder than before. “You’re learning.”
She opened the door and whispered to the guard, “Bring him. And Evan—” She tilted her head, voice sweet. “If you try anything… you’ll disappear so completely even your shadow won’t remember you.”
They marched me toward the infirmary—and as we rounded the corner, I saw a trail of blood on the floor leading into the bright white room.
And I knew Ray had made his move.
The infirmary lights were harsh enough to make everyone look guilty. Ray Lopez was on a gurney, shirt cut open, a thick bandage pressed to his side. His face was gray, but his eyes were wide and focused—like he’d been waiting for me.
A nurse hovered near the doorway, trembling. A doctor I recognized—Dr. Keene, the name from the stitched coat—stood too still, hands clean in a way that didn’t match the scene.
Marlene Whitaker walked in like she owned the oxygen. “How unfortunate,” she said, staring at Ray. “I warned him.”
Ray coughed, then forced a grin. “You didn’t warn me,” he rasped. “You threatened me.”
Marlene’s eyes flicked to Dr. Keene. “Stabilize him.”
Dr. Keene nodded once—too quick.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only Ray could hear. “Where is it?”
Ray’s hand twitched, barely visible. He moved two fingers—tap, tap—against the sheet. Morse code? No. Laundry code. Two taps meant stash in the press. Where uniforms got flattened and stacked before pickup.
I swallowed. The press room was locked at night, but the morning shift opened it early.
Marlene leaned toward me. “Evan,” she said, voice quiet and pleasant. “You’re going to help us. You’re going to tell me what he has.”
Ray’s eyes locked on mine. He didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. He just held my gaze like he was handing me the last match in a dark cave.
I took a breath. “He has nothing,” I said aloud. “He was just running his mouth.”
Marlene studied me, searching for the crack. “Is that so?”
Ray’s hand slid under the sheet. His fingers clenched around something. A small plastic bag. He pushed it toward the edge, letting it slip where only I could see.
Inside were photocopies, folded tight: signatures, numbers, a list of inmate IDs. And at the bottom, one phrase that made my stomach drop:
“Volunteer Program — Approved by Office of the Governor.”
Marlene noticed my eyes move. Her smile vanished. “What is that?”
The guard lunged toward me.
I moved first—snatching the bag and shoving it down my waistband like it was a weapon. The guard grabbed my collar. “Give it!”
Ray suddenly swung his bandaged arm and yanked the nurse’s tray off the counter—metal clattering, chaos blooming in the sterile room. The nurse screamed. Dr. Keene stepped back. For one second, everyone reacted like humans instead of pieces on a board.
I used that second.
I slammed my elbow into the guard’s ribs and stumbled out the door, running down the corridor with alarms beginning to wail behind me. My lungs burned. My feet slapped the floor like a confession.
I didn’t have a plan—just a direction: the press room at dawn, the outgoing laundry truck, and one chance to get the copies into the world beyond these walls.
Because if I failed, I wouldn’t just disappear.
I’d become one more “transfer” no one could confirm.
And as the alarms grew louder, I realized something terrifying: Marlene wasn’t yelling orders. She was laughing—like she’d been waiting for me to finally do exactly what she wanted.
If you were in my place—twenty-four years old, locked up since eighteen, holding proof that could ruin powerful people—would you run, bargain, or burn it all down? Drop your answer in the comments, and if you want Part 4, tell me what you think happens when the laundry truck reaches the gate.