THE ARRIVAL

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days.

It washed the dirt from the road but couldn’t cleanse the stench that always clung to Blackstone Correctional Facility.

The place looked older than time itself — iron gates screeching, bulbs humming like dying bees, guards moving through corridors lined with peeling blue paint. The air was thick with rust, sweat, and the weight of too many secrets.

They said the world outside had changed — cell phones, satellite TV, glass buildings.

But inside Blackstone, it was still the seventies. Radios crackled instead of televisions. Files stacked like tombstones in dusty corners. Even the guards carried wooden batons, not tasers.

Nothing here was fast — except rumors.

---

“You heard? New one’s coming tonight.”

The words echoed down the corridor.

Prisoners leaned out from behind their bars, eyes glowing in the dim yellow light. Rain drummed on the roof, and the smell of wet earth mixed with tobacco smoke.

“New prisoner?” a tattooed man asked.

“Yeah,” another replied, “and this one’s different.”

“How different?”

“They say… he’s just a kid.”

Laughter broke out — hollow, uneasy laughter.

In Blackstone, laughter was just another way to hide fear.

---

The South Wing

A gang of five sat around a dim bulb, dice rolling across the concrete floor. Their leader, Kaale Bhai, exhaled smoke and watched the rain trickle through a crack in the ceiling.

He’d been inside for twelve years — enough to know when silence meant danger.

“They say he killed twelve people,” murmured one of his men.

Kaale Bhai’s smile faded. “Twelve?”

“With his bare hands.”

He leaned back, tapping his cigarette on the floor. “A 19-year-old boy?”

The others didn’t respond.

Rumors always came dressed in exaggeration — but there was something about this one that didn’t sound made up.

Kaale Bhai’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll test him. See if he bleeds like the rest.”

---

The Guards’ Room

Upstairs, the security team sat around a wooden table, sipping chai from steel cups. The clock ticked louder than their voices.

Constable Ravi was the youngest — twenty-four, nervous, and always talking too much.

He waved the transfer file in his hand. “You people read this? Look at the note — ‘Extreme caution. No solitary, no open contact, no exposure to press.’ What kind of prisoner gets this treatment?”

Sub-Inspector Dutta yawned. “Probably some political case. They always make noise about them.”

Ravi shook his head. “He’s not political. He’s… a school boy.”

That made everyone look up.

The sound of rain filled the silence.

Dutta frowned. “You’re serious?”

Ravi nodded slowly. “Nineteen years old. Crime file’s half blacked out. But they say he smiled when they arrested him.”

Someone laughed nervously. “So what, maybe he’s insane.”

Ravi muttered, “Or maybe he knows something we don’t.”

---

The Arrival

By midnight, the rain had turned heavier — sheets of water cutting through the prison’s outer lamps.

A siren wailed once.

A truck rolled through the gate, its wheels slicing through mud.

Headlights hit the rusted bars, turning everything white for a second.

The guards lined up under the porch. The warden, short and sweating, barked orders as the back door of the vehicle creaked open.

Inside, a single prisoner sat, wrists cuffed, ankles chained. His head was bowed. A thin white shirt clung to his skin.

When they pulled him out, he didn’t resist.

He didn’t look scared either.

He just stared — eyes calm, almost empty.

Someone whispered, “That’s him…”

Another added, “He looks normal.”

That word — normal — hung in the air like a bad omen.

---

In the Shadows

From the upper corridor, a man stood watching the transfer.

He wasn’t wearing a guard’s cap. His uniform was darker, cleaner — pressed perfectly, as if discipline was stitched into its fabric.

His nameplate read: Raghav S.

He’d arrived that same evening, quietly, without ceremony. The prison staff whispered his name the same way they spoke of thunderstorms — inevitable, dangerous, unpredictable.

A new jailer, with a record of breaking bones and ending riots in blood.

No one knew why a man of his reputation had been transferred to this forgotten prison.

No one dared to ask.

He watched as the young prisoner was led through the gate, chains rattling softly like whispers of ghosts.

For a brief second, the boy looked up — and their eyes met.

Something sharp passed between them.

Recognition?

No. Something colder. Something the rain couldn’t wash away.

Raghav’s jaw tightened.

He turned to the guard beside him. “Put him in Cell 47. Alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

---

Midnight Silence

By the time the corridor emptied, the rain had stopped.

Aarav sat on the concrete floor of Cell 47, staring at the opposite wall.

No fear. No tears. Just silence.

He raised his hand and traced a finger across the old stains on the wall — shapes only he could understand.

From far away, a guard whispered to another,

“Strange… he hasn’t said a word.”

The other replied, “Maybe he’s planning something.”

And inside that cell, Aarav smiled faintly — a ghost of a smile, unreadable and terrifying.

Outside, the new jailer walked past the cells, boots echoing.

For the first time in years, Blackstone felt awake.

Something had changed.

Something had entered that shouldn’t exist in a place meant to cage the damned.

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