Page 37 of Tattooed Heart

12

DIMITRI

The door buzzes with a metallic snarl that rattles through my bones.

That sound haunts me every hour I spend inside this place. The echo of it means movement, commands, transfers, or worse. But this time, when the bolts slide back and the door groans open, there is no command. No barked name or cuffs waiting to bite into my wrists. There is only Jensen.

He stands there holding a folder and a laminated badge. His face is a blank slate. It’s the same look he gave me that first day in the yard when blood soaked the concrete, and they called it self-defense just to avoid the paperwork.

He extends the badge toward me. “You're leaving.”

I stare at it, letting his words settle in. They didn't make sense initially after weeks of stale air and cold stares. Not after the nights I lay awake on a cot that creaked beneath the tension in my spine. Not after the brawls I'd survived, the threats I'd weathered, the constant vigilance that had become as natural as breathing.

“Why?” I ask, because I don’t trust anything here, not even good news.

Jensen shrugs, but there is a hint of respect in his eyes.

“Your lawyer pushed through a review. The judge agreed to an emergency motion based on new evidence. Said the case was compromised by falsified testimony and financial tampering. You're free to go.”

I take the badge, clip it to the front of my orange uniform, and follow him down the hallway. Each step echoes loudly, and I feel eyes on me from behind the cell bars. Inmates press against steel, watching in silence. They know what this walk means. They know what it costs to survive long enough to make it out.

Some of them nod in silent acknowledgment. Others turn away, unable to watch a man walk free when they have years left to serve. Rodriguez, who shared his commissary with me that first week, raises his fist in solidarity. Moore, who tried to corner me in the showers with a shiv, glares with pure hatred burning in his eyes.

I keep my gaze forward and my shoulders back. Even on your way out, you have to walk like you own every inch of concrete beneath your feet. The predators are always watching and waiting for the moment you forget this simple truth.

The guards say nothing as I pass. No congratulations or sarcasm, just silence. A silence so heavy it makes you wonder if the doors will suddenly slam shut again, trapping you in this nightmare for good.

Officer Davis stands at the checkpoint, his fingers tapping impatiently against his belt. He has been one of the few who treated me like a human being rather than an animal. He nodsonce as I pass, a small gesture that might mean nothing to a civilian, but in this place, it is practically a farewell parade.

“Stay clean,” he mutters loud enough for only me to hear.

I give him a slight nod. We both know the odds of someone from my world staying clean are astronomically low. The Bratva isn’t a job you quit or a life you walk away from. But his words aren’t really about hope. They are about respect.

At processing, they hand me my belongings: black jeans, a black shirt, a watch, and the silver chain I always wore tucked beneath my collar. After weeks without it, it feels heavy, like a vital part of myself was missing and is finally restored.

I change quickly, trying not to think about how much of myself I’m leaving behind in this concrete jungle. The man who walked in is not the same man who is walking out. Prison hollows out parts of your soul and fills it with cold, hard calculation. Every moment becomes a tactical assessment. Every interaction is a potential threat. Even now, as I slip my watch onto my wrist, I scan the room for exits, weapons, and any sign of danger.

The processing officer counts out the cash in my wallet I had upon my arrival. Four hundred and thirty-two dollars. It seems like such a trivial amount now. Outside, I have accounts with millions. Inside, it might as well have been pennies for all the good it did me.

“Sign here,” he instructs, sliding the clipboard across the counter and tapping the dotted line with the detached precision of someone who has done this a thousand times.

I skim the release forms. Everything seems in order. I sign my name with deliberate strokes. There is something satisfyingabout using a real pen again instead of the flimsy, flexible excuse for writing utensils they allow in the cells.

“Your personal effects have been cleared,” the officer mumbles, handing me a plastic bag containing my wallet, keys, and phone. “Battery's dead, obviously.”

I nod, pocketing everything quickly. The phone is useless now anyway. As is the standard security protocol, Aleksandr had all the lines changed after my arrest. New phones, numbers, and codes.

The final gate looms ahead, a massive slab of steel and security mechanisms. The officer swipes his card and enters a code, and the gate begins its slow, mechanical journey open. The sound of freedom has a distinct noise. Not the harsh buzz of the internal doors but a smoother, more deliberate hum.

"Good luck, Popov," the officer mutters, and I'm unsure if he means it or if it's just something they say to everyone who walks out.

When the final gate opens, and I step outside, the wind hits me with the warmth of spring. The air is fresh and clean, with a hint of rain. I listen to the rustle of branches from trees just beginning to wake up. After weeks of recycled air tainted with blood, bleach, and sweat, it feels like my first real breath in a lifetime.

I turn my face to the sky and close my eyes for a long pause. When I open them again, I see him.

Aleksandr leans against a matte-black SUV, dressed in a tailored gray suit and wearing sunglasses that do nothing to hide the intensity of his stare. He looks like power dressed in silk, but I can see the relief in the way his shoulders relax when he sees me.His posture changes subtly. It only does that when he is truly at ease. Which, for Aleksandr, is still more rigid than most men at their most alert.

I cross the parking lot, my shoes crunching over gravel, and stop a few feet from him.

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