Page 193 of Craving Venom

“These men have already been punished,” Shirley continues. “They’re here because they made choices that cost them their freedom. But if we lock them away and throw away the key, what happens when they get out?”

A few students straighten or glance away, unsettled by the question.

“Recidivism.” She lets the word hang. “Reoffending. Falling back into the same cycle of violence and crime.”

“So… this is about giving them a second chance?” someone asks.

Shirley nods. “In a way, yes. But it’s more than that. It’s about breaking the cycle. Giving them the tools they need to make different choices if they ever get another chance.”

I jot down notes, gliding my pen smoothly across the page, but my mind drifts, barely registering the words forming beneath the tip.

Because while Shirley talks about redemption and second chances, my mind drifts to Zane. I press my pen harder against the paper, the words blurring as I stare down at my notes without really seeing them.

Is there a chance for him?

Could someone like Zane ever change?

The idea feels ridiculous, almost laughable. Zane doesn’t want redemption. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. He doesn’t regret the blood on his hands, and I don’t think he ever will.

But what if…

What if there’s a version of him—buried so fucking deep that even he doesn’t know it exists—that wants something more?

Something better.

But no matter how many scenarios I run through in my head, they all lead back to the same dead end.

Zane doesn’t want out.

He thrives in this world. It’s where he belongs, where he’s always belonged.

And as much as I hate him for everything, he’s done…

A part of me wishes it were different.

Tria’s elbow nudges into my arm, jolting me from the endless loop of thoughts.

“Let’s go.”

I blink, my eyes reluctantly dragging from the half-filled page of notes. The ink’s smudged where my pen pressed too hard.

“Shirley said we could explore,” Tria adds, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “We’re supposed to meet back here in an hour.”

“Yeah,” I force a nod. “I heard.”

She gives me a look. Not quite convinced.

I snap my notebook shut and follow her out. The occasional chatter drifts from down the hall. Guards keep an eye on us, not with suspicion but with the careful gaze meant for things easily broken.

We step through the double doors as a guard guides us toward the garden.

It’s the last thing I expected to see here. Sunlight spills across neatly kept hedges and patches of wildflowers. Gravel paths wind through manicured lawns, and wooden benches are scattered beneath tall trees that sway lazily in the breeze.

It doesn’t belong here.

But that’s the point, isn’t it? A manufactured attempt to inject softness into something hard. The whole place is designed to make you forget what it really is.

Tria trails her fingers along a row of roses as the sunlight catches the delicate blooms, casting a warm glow over the garden.

---