Page 22 of Shapeshifter's Vengeance

“Orders,” he replies, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I stand, feeling a mix of anger and helplessness. They’re treating me like a common criminal, and I have no way to prove my innocence. I follow the guard down a long corridor. The air is heavy with the scent of sweat and despair. We pass several cells, their occupants watching with a mix of curiosity and malice.

Finally, we reach a larger room filled with bunk beds. The guard points to an empty bed in the corner. “That’s yours.”

I nod, making my way to bed. The other inmates eye me warily, some whispering among themselves. I ignore them, retreating to my new corner of the world. I sit on the bed, my thoughts consumed by the fragments of memory I can’t seem to piece together.

I focus on the dreams, trying to recall any detail that might help. There was a face—no, several faces—familiar but shrouded in darkness. There were whispers, chants, and a sensation of being pulled in different directions. It’s maddening, like trying to grasp smoke.

The day drags on, each hour blending into the next. Meals are a blur, tasteless, and unappetizing. Conversations around me are constantly buzzing, but I pay them no mind. My only goal is to remember and find some clue that will lead to my exoneration.

As night falls, I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quieter now, the others having settled into their routines. I close my eyes, hoping that sleep will bring more dreams, more pieces of the puzzle.

But sleep doesn’t come easily. My mind races, thoughts colliding in a chaotic mess. I can’t stop thinking about Evelyn, about Ana, about the council. They’re all counting on me, and I’m trapped in this prison, unable to help myself, let alone them.

I join the rest of the inmates in the open field, where the usual assortment of sports and activities is taking place: basketball, weightlifting, and even a few games of chess. The sun beatsdown, but I barely feel it. My mind is elsewhere, constantly churning over fragmented memories and elusive clues.

As I scan the yard, my attention is drawn to a commotion near the far corner. A group of inmates is crowding around a timid-looking guy, shoving him back and forth. Their laughter is harsh, a predatory edge to it. I know bullying when I see it.

I stride over, my anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Hey! Leave him alone.”

One of the bullies, a tall, muscular man with a sneer permanently etched on his face, turns to me. “Mind your own business, pretty boy.”

I step closer, my eyes locked on his. “I said, leave him alone.”

The tension thickens, and for a moment, the yard goes quiet. The tall guy looks me up and down, then laughs. “You got a death wish or something?”

“No,” I reply evenly. “Just tired of seeing cowards pick on someone smaller. Find someone your own size.”

Things escalate quickly. The bully shoves me, and I retaliate. Fists fly, and the world narrows to a series of punches and grunts. I let my anger fuel me; each hit a release of the frustration and helplessness I've been feeling.

I’m overpowering them, my vampire strength giving me the upper hand despite the restraints of this place. But then, I feel a sharp pain in my side. I look down to see one of the bullies holding an improvised shiv, its jagged edge stained with my blood.

I stagger, the wound burning. My vision blurs, and I drop to the ground. The bullies back off, their faces a mix of fear and triumph. The rest of the inmates scatter, the chaos dissolving into shocked whispers.

Guards rush in, and I’m barely aware of being lifted onto a stretcher. The pain is intense, but I cling to consciousness. The world tilts, and I’m moving, the scenery blurring past.

We reach the prison clinic, and I’m laid on a cot. The nurse, a stern woman with a no-nonsense attitude, quickly assesses the wound.

“Hold still,” she instructs, her hands deftly working to clean and bandage the stab wound. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything vital.”

I grit my teeth against the pain, trying to focus on anything else. The sterile smell of the clinic, the distant murmur of voices. The nurse finishes her work and steps back.

“Rest,” she says firmly. “You need to let your body heal.”

I nod, closing my eyes. Exhaustion seeps into my bones and despite the pain, sleep starts to pull me under. As I drift off, my thoughts swirl with confusion and anger. Is this my new reality? Locked away, fighting to survive in a place where justice seems a distant memory?

When I wake up, the clinic is quiet. The pain in my side is a dull throb, manageable but persistent. Normally, this would have healed almost instantly, but the prison was only giving me enough blood to just barely sustain me, meaning any wound would take significantly longer to heal. I sit up slowly, testing my strength. The nurse notices and comes over.

“You’re healing well and rather fast,” she says, her tone grudgingly approving. “But take it easy.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the side of the cot. “I need to remember. It’s important.”

She gives me a curious look but doesn’t press. “Whatever you say. Just don’t get yourself killed.”

I manage a weak smile. “I’ll try.”

As I make my way back to the general population area, my mind is a whirl of thoughts. Back in the yard, the atmosphere is tense. The incident earlier has everyone on edge. I find a quiet corner and sit down, closing my eyes and focusing on trying to get my memories back.

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