Luke walks with his head facing the prison floor as a group of guards surround him, hands resting on their guns like they're on high alert. He doesn't fight the cold, metallic burn between his wrists. He has no idea how he ended up in a bright orange uniform or handcuffs.

The cops raided his house. Before he had a chance to ask questions or retaliate, they had him down on the floor in cuffs. He could hear the banging of other prisoners as he shamefully walked the prison halls. Finally, they all came to a stop and took hold of Luke, swinging him into an empty cell with a single toilet, a rusted bed with a mattress that looked as thin as a sheet, and, of course, a sink and mirror to stare into — to contemplate how he even ended up here.

The truth is, he wanted to smash his head into that sink out of frustration. He didn't do anything. He was innocent. He lived an ordinary shut-in life. He didn't even speak to his family. He knew he was all alone.

"Okay, son, this is where you're gonna be stayin'. Make yurself at home, ya hear?" the prison guard said in a deep Southern accent.

Luke just stared up at him, not saying a word. The last time he tried to speak and claim he was innocent, he got sucker punched in the gut.

"Ya ain't no dog, but ya sure act like one, starin' up at me like that. We call the shots now, so ya better settle in and get used to this place. This fella right here — he's gonna be yer daddy." The guard laughed, pointing to a tall man in uniform with black shades, a baton, and a cocky smirk on his face.

Luke turned his attention to the other guard. He had slicked-back black hair and a tight-fitted shirt. He was well put together — muscular but lean — and despite his intimidating stance, he had a surprisingly pretty face. Luke wasn't one to acknowledge a guy's looks, but this guy was an exception.

The Southern guard looked over to his partner. "Well now, best to get yurselves acquainted," he said, tugging on his holster before glancing back at Luke. "And you, pretty boy, better not go around causin' no trouble." He wagged a finger at Luke, gave the other guard a firm pat on the back, and walked off.

Luke watched the first guard leave, now alone with the one carrying the baton. He took a seat on the rusted bed, letting out a sigh.

"You got something to say?" the guard asked, smirking at him.

Luke stared up at him, knowing nothing he could say would be believed. He shook his head.

"Hm..." the guard muttered. "What's a pretty boy like you doing in here? That beady glare can't hurt anyone. You don't seem like the type to fight." He used the baton to tilt Luke's chin up, forcing their eyes to meet.

Luke let out a bitter laugh. "You'd be the first to think that. And I'm just as clueless as you are."

"Clueless, huh? Then how does a guy with the nickname 'Grim Reaper' end up clueless as to why he's here?" the guard said as he traced his baton down Luke's chest.

Luke didn't shift his eyes. He was afraid the wrong move would get him hit.

The guard slipped the baton between Luke's legs and pressed it down on a sensitive spot.

"Lies don't get you far. Violence does, in this place. And if you lie to me again—" he pushed harder, "—I'll use it."

Luke let out a soft moan and winced in embarrassment, looking away from the smirking guard.

"I see you understand," the guard said, finally removing the baton.

He walked out of the cell, locking it behind him and taking his place right outside, standing guard.

Luke's mind began to race. What could he possibly have done to deserve this? Was this some kind of hell? Before Luke's mind could wander any further, another guard walked up to the one guarding his cell. Both of them exchanged quick, hushed words, occasionally glancing back at Luke. Finally, the guard at Luke's door gave a small nod, silently showing he understood whatever the other told him, before turning back to the cell to unlock it once again.

Luke's heart began to pound, unaware of what was about to happen next — and that's what scared him. He wasn't aware of anything happening. He couldn't guess anyone's next move, because he believed he didn't truly even belong in prison.

"Hey—" the guard snapped Luke out of his self-pity. Suddenly, he was standing in front of Luke. Luke shuffled his legs, hurriedly crossing them. He started anxiously swinging the foot hanging across his leg up and down in the air.

"Pretty boy," the guard said in a snide tone as he called out, taunting Luke and gesturing for him to look up.

Luke finally shifted his head upward, giving his attention to him — giving in to the fear.

"Y-yes?" Luke managed to stutter.

"You have money for an attorney?" the guard asked dryly, staring down at Luke with an instinctive glare.

Luke jolted out of his guarded demeanor and shot up from the rusted bed.

"You mean it? I can get a lawyer?"

"If you have the money for it," the guard replied with a dismissive tone. "Which I doubt you do." He let out a dry laugh. Luke didn't find it funny — this wasn't a joke to him. But Luke knew the guard was right. It pained him to even admit that to himself.

Luke's eyes scanned the room, searching for something. Finally, Luke came to a conclusion.

"Sixth Amendment," Luke replied with a smug look on his face.

The guard raised an eyebrow, placing his hand on his holster. "You really think you'll win with a public defender defending your case?" the guard asked, almost rhetorically.

"Maybe if I know what I'm being accused of," Luke replied as his body moved in defeat, taking a seat on the rusted bed once again. Luke sat there, arms resting on his legs in a lazy X shape, contemplating how this could have happened.

He nearly forgot the guard was still there until he spoke again.

"You really don't know? I find that hard to believe."

Luke looked up at the guard, acknowledging his words.

"I really don't. Every time I—" Luke paused, watching the guard's eyes, choosing his words carefully. He knew the guard was not his friend, and one slip-up could get him beat.

The guard stared at Luke, waiting for him to finish.

"No, I don't know. I'm trying to figure that out," Luke finally said.

Before the guard could say anything, another guard called out from a distance, "Salem." The guard turned around.

"New orders," the other guard said to Salem.

"Salem, huh? Peace?" Luke muttered under his breath as Salem walked away with the other guard.

"Well, that doesn't suit him at all." Luke let out a chuckle. He could still smell Salem's strong cologne lingering in his cell.

Salem returned, but this time his expression was strange—his eyes said something different from his face, as if whatever he'd just been told shook him, and he had to pretend otherwise.

Luke was good at reading people, as much as he avoided them. Luke guessed that's why—because being fake, putting on a show, was something you adapted to, something that seemed normal after doing it for a while. An outsider could always see through the clouded veil. An outsider like Luke.

Salem paused as he reached Luke.

"Come with me," he said.

"It's time to meet your lawyer."