10 years later

  Zurich swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, slow and methodical. The guards’ shouting about breakfast jarred him awake, but he hardly needed the prodding. Habit took hold as he sat up, running a hand through his hair before pressing his palms hard into his eyes. He hadn't even bothered to open them yet; he didn't need to. The ingrained routine carried him forward, his bare feet shuffling over the cold concrete floor. Without hesitation, Zurich drifted toward the sink and the dull, scratched metal sheet affixed above it—his excuse for a mirror, installed so inmates couldn’t use broken shards of glass as weapons.

  Reaching the sink, he leaned forward, finally letting his eyelids crack open. His gaze fell upon the warped reflection, not that it offered much. The surface was riddled with years of wear, dulled by countless prisoners before him. He rubbed at his eyes again and squinted at the metal.

  Something was off.

  Where his eyes should have been, there was only darkness—and the same black smeared his mouth, dripping between his teeth like oil. He blinked hard and leaned in. Maybe it was a scratch in the metal or a layer of grime. He wiped the surface; his fingertips snagged on old scuffs until they bled, but the void in the reflection didn’t move.

  His breath hitched. His heartbeat hammered in his ears as the eyeless face stared back at him. He pressed his fingers harder against the metal, smearing bloody smudges in desperation.

  "What the hell…" he muttered, his voice cracking. His trembling hand darted to his own face, bloodstained fingertips searching for the familiar contours of his eyes. They were there—he could feel the lids blinking, lashes brushing against his fingers. A choked gasp escaped his throat as he staggered back.

  A loud thump jolted Zurich awake. His heart pounded as he shot upright. His cellmate, Dion, dropped down from the top bunk, a man big enough to block half the light in the cramped space. Old scars crossed Dion’s inked forearms, and his voice came out low and gravelly—the kind of voice you didn't ignore. He scratched his head and made his way toward the small sink.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Zurich sat frozen, heart still racing. He rubbed his face, trying to shake the memories of the nightmare loose. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, but as reality settled back in, he realized he was still on the bottom bunk. It had all been a dream.

  Without thinking, Zurich stood and brushed past Dion to reach the mirror above the sink. He leaned in close, palms braced against the rusted metal frame, scanning the reflection with urgent determination. There they were—his eyes, staring back at him, ordinary and unobscured. He exhaled sharply, the tension in his chest releasing all at once.

  "Yo, what’s wrong with you?" Dion asked, his tone equal parts confusion and irritation. "Why are you acting all weird?"

  Zurich straightened up, his mouth twitching into an uneasy smile. "Just... a bad dream, I suppose," he muttered. He turned away from the mirror, but the image of the void stayed with him through the yard and through chow.

  After a decade behind bars, Zurich had become a product of the institution. In here, he wasn't Jay. He was Zurich. He’d grown into a formidable man; his posture and demeanor read to others as a warning they didn’t want to test. He wouldn’t tolerate disrespect, and he reacted fast to anyone who tried. Whoever he’d been before was gone; this version was built to survive.

  Later that day, the prison's worn-out loudspeakers broke the monotonous routine with a long awaited message. "Zurich, pack up!”

  He gathered his things and made his way down the main hallway, but the walk felt different this time. He slid his paperwork to the woman behind the property window. She disappeared briefly, returning with a clear plastic bag containing Zurich's meager possessions.

  "Sign here, please," she instructed.

  "A… uh… Lori Zurich left these for you," she added, sliding an old, worn cell phone and some folded clothes across the counter. "You can change in the bathroom."

  Zurich clutched the plastic bag against his chest as he navigated the sterile prison hall toward a small, grim, tiled changing area—his last stronghold before stepping back into the world. The door protested with a squeal as he entered, sealing himself away. Holding the outdated clothes up to the light, he couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the high-end labels and the faded fabric—evidence of a life paused long ago.

  He dressed quickly. The fabric was much tighter now, straining against the muscle mass he’d built over ten years of lifting in the yard. Sitting on the cold bench in the dressing area, Zurich took a breath. Every scar on his body was a map of his past—callused knuckles, faded lacerations, and a recent black eye still healing. The redness that marred the white of his eye was stark—a physical testament to his unyielding prison life.

  His clothes once spoke of luxury, but no longer. They were just a costume for a man who didn't exist anymore.

  Zurich left the changing room and walked toward the exit. The door creaked open, releasing him into the blinding brightness of a world forgotten.