Page 13 of Craving Venom

I take a step closer, invading his space, and his breath hitches. “Careful, kid,” I say softly. “You’re starting to sound like you want proof.”

“I don’t care,” he snaps, surprising me. “I just wanted to know. That’s all.”

I cock my head, studying him. “So why are you roaming around with that expression if you don’t actually give a shit?”

“Because none of this fucking matters. You kill someone, they kill someone, the whole cycle just keeps going. What’s the fucking point?”

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, huh? What the hell’s a kid like you doing in a place like this, anyway? You don’t look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out by the system yet.”

“I had everything,” he says quietly. “I was a star football player. Scouts were practically lining up to sign me.”

“And then?” I ask, though I already know the answer. There’s always an “and then.”

“And then,” he says bitterly, “I fucked it all up. I’m here, okay? That’s all that matters. I’m here, and it’s not going to get any better, so don’t waste your breath trying to tell me it will.”

For a moment, I just look at him. The kid’s raw, a bundle of anger and self-loathing wrapped up in a too-big prison uniform.

“Well,” I say finally, “you’re in the right place. This place eats up people like you, people who think they’ve got nothing to lose. So here’s a tip: you’ve got two choices. Sink or fucking swim.”

Mark doesn’t respond, but his fists clench at his sides.

“Come on,” I say, turning back toward the path. “Tour’s not over yet. You’re going to want to see the cafeteria before you decide whether to die in here or make it out alive.”

I exhale deeply as we approach my cell. Finally. The fucking tour’s over. Babysitting isn’t my idea of a good time, and this kid’s already managed to irritate me more than most.

I push open the door and step inside, but before I can shut it, Mark follows me, one foot already past the threshold.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, holding up a hand to stop him. “Tour’s over, rookie. Unless you’ve got a death wish, you don’t step into my space.”

“Maybe I do,” he shrugs, crossing his arms.

I bark out a laugh. “Bold move, Mario. You think walking into my cell is going to make me snap? Hate to break it to you, but you’re not that special.”

“It’s Mark,” he corrects again as he steps further inside despite my warning, then stops dead in his tracks with his mouth hanging open like a fish.

I can’t help the smirk that creeps onto my face. It’s always the same reaction when people see the murals and they don’t know what to do with it.

The walls are covered in them. A stormy ocean on one side, a phoenix rising from the ashes on the other. Every inch is filled with movement and meaning, layers of color and chaos that somehow come together perfectly.

Mark looks at me, then back at the walls, then at me again. “You did this?”

“Nah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “The mural fairy came by last night. Left me a masterpiece and a bag of magic beans.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I mean… this doesn’t exactly scream ‘cold-blooded killer.’”

“Oh, yeah? And what does a cold-blooded killer scream, exactly? Blood spatters and skulls? Maybe a ‘Welcome to Hell’ banner over the door?”

“You’re not exactly what I expected,” he admits, still staring at the walls like he’s trying to figure out how they’re even real.

“And you’re exactly what I expected,” I shoot back.

Mark’s eyes land on the old computer tucked in the corner of my cell, and his brows lift. “Wait, is that… a computer?”

I follow his gaze and snort. “What, never seen one before, rookie?”

He ignores the jab, stepping closer. “Does it work?”

“Oh, it works. But unless you’re into dumpster fires, I wouldn’t get too excited.”

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