Episode 3
“No.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to get out of here?”
His refusal was so blunt my voice rose without thinking. I checked the hallway—empty—then turned back, waiting.
“Why ask me?” Richard’s voice was ice. “What if I report your plan to the guards?”
“You won’t.”
“You trust me?”
“Absolutely!” I nodded, earnest.
“…”
He stared, speechless.
My faith wasn’t baseless. Richard, with his noble bearing, wasn’t the snitching type. And prisoners conspiring to escape? Hardly rare.
So let’s play nice until our breakout.
“Drop this,” he said flatly, ending the conversation.
A guard passed by, eyeing me suspiciously near the bars. I shot Richard one last longing glance. I hadn’t expected immediate agreement—but now, the seed was planted.
Opportunity Knocks
I schemed for chances to win him over. Solitary confinement and iron bars weren’t ideal for bonding, but the narrow hallway meant our fingers could almost touch.
The only upside? We’re each other’s sole entertainment.
Lazing on my wooden bunk, I broke the silence:
“So, what’d you do to end up here?”
Richard fumbled with his blunt prison fork. Still not used to it, huh? The guards filed them down to prevent stabbings—barely functional as utensils.
“You already know,” he muttered.
“I want to hear it from you.”
His jaw clenched.
I shrugged. I did know—framed for treason, according to gossip. But asking was just step one in my “shared trauma” bonding plan.
When he finished eating, I edged closer, plate in hand.
“Sure you don’t wanna escape?”
“This again?” He scowled.
“Listen,” I said, deadly serious. “Prison food’s terrible. You really wanna eat this slop forever?”
“…That’s your argument?”
“Logical, right?” I grinned, pushing a leftover potato through the bars. “Here. Didn’t touch it.”
“No.”
“Hate potatoes?”
“Just—fine.“ He snatched it, oblivious.
Potatoes are love, Richard.
Breaking Point
The cell door screeched open. Richard returned, chains rattling, as guards locked him in and left.
I crept to the bars—and froze.
Slumped against the wall, he was covered in wounds.
Tsk. Should’ve fought smarter.
A strange empathy flickered. Was this how Kyle felt watching me?
“Torture?” I whispered.
“Ngh—” A pained groan escaped him.
“Hold on.”
Ducking back, I pulled a hidden glass vial from under my bunk—stolen supplies for emergencies. Payment due upon escape.
Once the guards retreated upstairs, I stuffed my bed with a pillow-and-blanket decoy and got to work.
Sweating, I picked my cell lock with a smuggled wire. Then Richard’s.
His eyes flared when I slipped inside. “How—?!”
“Shh!” I knelt, unbuttoning his shirt.
“STOP—!” He yanked at his chains, muscles straining.
Wow. Even injured, he’s strong.
“Disinfecting you,” I said, dabbing medicine on his lashes. “Mold grows fast down here.”
“I don’t care—”
“Risked my life for you,” I pouted. “Really saying no?”
He looked away, jaw tight. “…Do what you want.”
Permission granted.
His torso was worse up close—rope burns, gashes. I blew on a raw welt.
His skin flushed crimson.
“Does it hurt?”
“N-No—”
I traced idle patterns. He shuddered.
“Quit playing,” he growled.
“Just disinfecting~”
When I blew again, his breath hitched. Ah.
…Is he weak to seduction?
Easier than persuasion.
I met his eyes—glassy, lips bitten red—and smiled.
Got you.
