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They leave without another word, the door clicking shut behind them.

And I’m alone again.

I stand in the middle of the room for a long moment, eyes tracing the edges of everything that stayed the same while I didn’t.

Then I strip off my clothes—rough fabric, loose seams, stiff from too many washes. I toss them straight into the bin. I step into the bathroom, flick on the light, and turn the shower dial to cold.

The spray hits me hard, a shock against skin too used to recycled air and rationed heat. But I stay under it, letting the chill sink deep. Letting it wash away months—years—of sweat, grime, and confinement

I start to scrub slowly. Every inch of skin. Fingernails, shoulders, back, arms. I lather until my chest stings from friction, as if I could scrape away the years in layers of foam.

Prison leaves a texture behind. Not just grime—something deeper. Something that clings to the way your muscles hold tension. The way your spine stays straight even when no one’s watching.

I press my palms flat over my face. Then I lift my head under the water, letting it pour across my scalp and soak the overgrown mess of hair.

I step out of the shower, still dripping, and I stare at myself in the mirror.

Too long. Matted in places. Unkempt. My beard is uneven, thicker near the jaw, patchy near the cheeks. I’ve looked worse. But not much.

I grab the scissors from the drawer.

I start with the back—short, slow snips at first. Then higher along the sides. It falls in damp clumps into the sink. I work through the top, trimming in layers, shaping the edges. It’s uneven at first, but I find rhythm. Clean lines. Sharp angles. Something more familiar.

It feels like shedding skin.

I wipe the steam from the mirror with a towel and pick up the razor next.

The blade glides against my jaw in careful, even strokes. The lather smells of sandalwood—comforting in a way I didn’t expect. I take my time. Rinse the blade after every pass. I’ve waited four years for a decent shave. I’m not rushing it now.

My eyes stay locked on the reflection.

Little by little, the man beneath emerges again.

When I finish, I trim my brows, clip my nails, even buff down the hardened skin at my knuckles. I smooth pomade through my newly cut hair, combing it back into place.

Finally, I stand still, looking at myself.

The angles of my face are sharper now. Eyes darker. There are lines I don’t remember having. A tiredness in the gaze that didn’t exist before.

I rest my hands on the sink edge, eyes locked on the reflection.

Four years spent in prison. Not because I got caught. Because I let them catch me.

It was the only move left.

We had an operation running through pharmaceutical imports. Legitimate cargo routes. Clean licenses. Except we weren’t moving meds—we were moving hormone-enhanced street pills, coded under research materials.

Synthetic G-series dopamine inhibitors—worth millions on the underground market. A chemist we paid off was custom-coding the product under untraceable strings.

But someone started leaking information to the authorities. I never figured out who it was but it was too clean of a tip off to be from an outsider. A federal investigation was forming—and the deeper they looked, the closer they’d get to the core of it all. My father. Our network. Our front corporations.

I needed to throw them off course.

So I let them catch me—on a cocaine handoff. Something loud, dirty, flashy and, most of all, cheap. It was the dryest stash worth nothing in comparison to the real deal I needed to cover up.

Enough to make headlines. Enough to satisfy bloodthirsty prosecutors.

I staged it. Gave them the show they wanted.