Page 211 of Inside the Sun

The officer puffs up.

"Right now, we’ve got four guys in two-man cells. You want me to cram in a fifth? That’s a disaster waiting to happen, Adams."

He leans over his monitor and checks something. "And the guy in S11’s got nothing to do with the mafia, so cool your jets."

"You’ll be personally responsible if anything happens," the agent growls, clearly burned from some past screw-up. But he’s not in charge here. The shift supervisor is. That’s how this works in jail.

The whole exchange is actually kind of entertaining. The agent’s desperation is rewarding. But hey, they bagged a bunchof our soldiers, and the holding area’s packed. Not my problem. I’ve got bigger ones.

One of the correctional officers materializes like a ghost and signals us forward. I walk in silence. I don’t care who I end up bunking with; I’m going away for years. I don’t get to be picky.

And there’s no way I’m contacting anyone on the outside right now. Way too risky.

If I end up stuck with some psycho who’s planning to use my ass for stress relief… oh well. Some shit’s unavoidable. Face harsh reality head-on, and mine’s always been brutal. Nothing new there.

We reach the holding cells. The officer unlocks one labeled S11.

Only now do they take off my cuffs. A hard shove between my shoulder blades, and I’m inside.

This is it.

My new reality starts now. I’m almost ready for it.

I glance around. The place looks like it used to be a single, but they’ve crammed in a bunk bed. On the bottom bunk, someone’s sitting with their back against the wall, knees pulled up. Face lost in shadow.

I take a deep breath.

Anyone involved in shady business thinks about this at least once, the day you slip up and end up behind bars. What will you do? What will others do to you?

Those thoughts hit everyone eventually. I’m no exception.

I’ve had more than a few vivid, fucked-up images of what might happen to me in prison, especially considering my scars.

But I’m not looking to start off on the wrong foot with whoever this guy is. I’m going to embrace my inmate life with apositiveattitude. So I keep my voice calm and neutral.

"Hey," I say. "I’m Anzo."

I give a short, lazy flick of my hand, my version of a greeting. I’m expecting silence. Maybe a contemptuous grunt. I’ve never been in prison before, so I have no idea how inmates usually act around each other, though I’ve heard stories.

What’s the protocol when someone new shows up? Do they get put in their place right away?

But what I get instead surprises me.

"Hey. I’m Sun," says the figure from the shadows, his voice similarly calm, almost matching mine.

Sun?

I freeze in place.

A chill races down my spine.

A powerful one, so strong it makes me sway slightly and catch myself on the edge of the bunk. It’s like I’ve just taken a blow to the back of the head. Shock floods my system before I manage to force out a response, trying hard to keep my tone indifferent.

"Sun? That your name?"

It doesn’t really work. My surprise saturates my voice. It bleeds all over it.

"Why? Is it ugly?" he asks, dragging the words slightly.

---