Page 6

Faith

I grab only my notebook and pull the door shut, hurrying to keep pace with Dax and Grip as they barrel down the hall.

Quince is still at the door when we pass, leaning against the frame like he hasn’t got a single responsibility in the world. He snorts when he sees us. “Hope it’s a good show!” he calls after us, his laugh echoing down the corridor.

I grit my teeth. A brawl, and he’s amused. Why the hell are inmates rushing to break it up while guards lean back and watch?

As we weave through the halls, I try to take in the layout, though everything blurs with the urgency of Dax’s long strides and Grip’s muttering about ‘goddamn Pauly.’ The corridor widens as we approach the chow hall, the stink of sweat and old food hitting me like a wall.

A few guards stand off to the side, arms crossed, grinning like they’re watching a schoolyard scuffle.

I can’t process it, how they just stand there. There’s no urgency, no authority. None of the professionalism I’ve seen in every other facility I’ve evaluated. They’re useless.

The noise is deafening as we reach the chow hall.

Dax doesn’t hesitate. He storms inside, shoving past a group of inmates huddled near the door, and throws himself into the chaos without a single look back at me.

I stop just inside the threshold, my chest tightening as the scene unfolds in front of me.

The place is carnage. Tables are flipped, their legs splintered and sticking out like jagged bones.

Food smears the floor, mixed with puddles of something darker, blood, I realize, as my stomach turns.

The air is thick with the scent of sweat, metal, and whatever they were serving for dinner.

The shouting is a wall of sound, voices crashing into each other, curses flying as fists do.

Every man in the room is fighting, save for the guard leaning lazily against the wall next to me.

He doesn’t so much as flinch, arms crossed as he watches with casual indifference.

Certainly not worried about my evaluation of his reaction to the situation.

The inmates are brutal. A man goes down near the center of the room, clutching his stomach as another kicks him hard in the ribs. A tray flies across the room and crashes into the wall, the sound sharp enough to make me jump.

And then I see Grip.

He’s not hesitating either, his bulk moving fast as he grabs one of the men by the shoulder and swings him around. His fist cracks against the inmate’s jaw, hard enough that the man’s head snaps back, and I almost hear the thud over the noise as his body hits the floor.

But it’s Dax who grabs my attention and doesn’t let it go.

He’s not savage or thoughtless. Every move is deliberate, his focus unnervingly sharp as he grabs one man by the throat and lifts him clean off the ground. The inmate claws at Dax’s arm, gasping, until Dax shoves him back and tosses him aside like a rag doll.

Another man comes at him from the side, but Dax is faster. He pulls the guy off his feet with one arm and flings him into the overturned table, the wood groaning under the impact.

He’s pulling a third man away from a pile on the floor when his voice cuts through the room like a whip.

“Enough!”

It’s not just a shout, it’s a command. A warning. And it works.

The noise dies almost instantly, like someone hit a switch. The chaos freezes, every man in the room pausing mid-motion, fists clenched and breathing hard. All eyes turn to Dax, who stands in the center of the carnage, his shoulders heaving, a bloodied man dangling from his grip.

“Where’s the fucking doc?” Dax demands, his voice sharp enough to make even the guard stiffen.

“Med hall, I’d reckon,” the guard beside me drawls, still leaning against the wall like nothing’s happened.

Dax’s jaw tightens, and his gaze cuts to Grip. “This better be cleaned up by the time I get back,” he growls, jerking the bloodied man upright and dragging him toward the door.

I swallow hard, realizing I haven’t taken a single note. And even if I had, I wouldn’t know where to start. They didn’t give me a chance to get to know their names before they tried to kill each other. Recidivism rates? My head swims.

As I follow Dax and Pauly toward the exit, I flick my gaze to the guard’s uniform, catching his name. Hogan.

Useless. Every single one of them. Not a single guard here is worth the uniform they wear.

“What’d you take?” Dax demands, his tone sharp as he drags Pauly down the hall.

Pauly stumbles, his breathing uneven. “I didn’t. The program. This morning.” He coughs, and dark red specks hit the floor.

“Right, zip it,” Dax growls, cutting him off.

I make a mental note of that. The program.

The air shifts as we enter what I assume is the med wing. The smell here is different. Not as stale as the rest of the prison, but not quite clean either. There’s a faint chemical tang beneath the surface, like disinfectant that’s fighting a losing battle.

The floors aren’t any better than the other wings, scuffed linoleum worn to a dull sheen, marked by years of heavy boots and neglect. The lighting overhead buzzes faintly, casting a dim yellow glow that falls short of the sterile brightness you’d expect in a medical facility.

“Doc?” Dax calls, his voice echoing down the hall.

A man steps out of a room at the far end, his casual attire at odds with the supposed purpose of this wing. His buzz cut is the same severe, military style as Sinclair’s, and his sharp eyes scan us quickly, his expression hard and unreadable.

“Pauly. Stryker,” the doctor acknowledges, his tone flat.

Dax shifts slightly, glancing at me, and the look he gives feels like a silent order for me to vanish. I’m not going anywhere.

The doctor’s gaze slides to me, his frown deepening before he waves toward a door halfway down the hall. “Room 3.”

I follow Dax inside.

Room 3 is as uninspired as the rest of the med wing.

A standard exam table sits in the center, its thin, worn padding cracked along the edges.

A counter to the side holds a tray of supplies, gauze, alcohol pads, syringes, and a blood pressure cuff hangs on the wall.

Everything looks decades out of date, functional but far from welcoming.

Dax helps Pauly onto the table, keeping his hand on the man’s shoulder until he’s settled. Then he moves to stand next to me, his tension radiating like a storm about to break.

“I been feeling sick since that shot this morning, Doc,” Pauly mutters, his voice weak.

“You got this?” Dax asks, his tone clipped, his eyes locked on the doctor.

The doctor waves him off dismissively. “I’ll handle it.”

I step forward instinctively, wanting to stay, to observe, but Dax’s hand brushes my arm, firm, steady, and the way he guides me out of the room leaves me no choice.

Once we’re far enough down the hall, I stop abruptly, turning to face him. “What the hell was that all about? Which program did you want him to zip it about?”

Dax exhales sharply, raking his hand through his hair. “Not here,” he says, his voice low but loaded. His gaze darts to the hallway, scanning for anyone within earshot. “It’s already dangerous enough for you as it is.”

This is it, whatever Sinclair is hiding.

Before I can push further, Dax shifts, his tone softening just slightly. “Let’s get some damn food and chat under the stars.”

I blink at him, caught off guard by the shift. There’s something almost charming about the way he says it, like the chaos of the evening hasn’t even fazed him. Like this was just another night in the Warden’s Graveyard and I was his best girl.

The thought rattles me, but not in the way I expect.

Something tells me I’m not going to get much reading done tonight, and for the first time since arriving, I don’t mind. I have the feeling Dax will tell me more over dinner than anything I’ll find in those files.