In the narrow alley snaking between the cells like rusted intestines, the floor was wet with a moisture that never dried, and the prison's smells—blood, humidity, human rot climbed out of the walls.
The rasp of iron echoed with every step, but the voices filling the place were not human…They were the screams of rats imprisoned in a cage where no one could tell human from beast.
The guards walked on either side of Em, as if clenching their fists could hide their fear, while the prisoners' shouts burst from every corner:
"Look at me, pretty!" "Hello there, girl!" "Come here, boy!"
Insults crashed like waves—some laughing, some whistling, some cursing.Em remained as he always was: a face without heat, without anger, devoid of any reaction.
Every voice he heard now was one he'd heard before… and he expected what came next—It was only natural for the scent of chrysanthemums to rise from the sewers.
When they reached his cell, the air changed.Laughter spread like an infection… a strange tone scattered through their chests:
"He's in the cell of Bob the Conqueror…"
They called him that because of the fear he carried inside prison and outside of it.
The guards pushed Im in—carefully.Inside the cell sat a man with unnatural stillness, shoulders raised, chin lowered, like a king on a tiny throne.His head was bald, marked with a deep scar in the shape of a cross.
Em entered without a sound.He adjusted his clothes slowly, sat on the rough bed, and looked at the scar… just looked.He said nothing.
Seconds dripped… then a minute… then several minutes, until the weight of Im's stare pressed on the man's chest.
Finally, the man raised his head:
"What are you looking at, kid?"
Em didn't answer.
He lay on the bed, as if the question had never reached him.
"Nothing. Forget it."
The man felt insulted.
He stood, walked over, and leaned above him, staring into his eyes:
"You're new, aren't you? You don't know who I am.You don't know what happens to the ones who share this cell with me.I rip their eyes out… and feed them to the animals here."
Em lifted his gaze, and a fabricated smile crawled onto his face:
"Oh, I know exactly who you are.Why do you think I watched you, waiting for you to look at me so I could see your eyes?You're fake. I can see that, but don't worry—I won't tell anyone. In fact… I'll be using you, Bob the Revolutionary."
The man's jaw twitched. His voice came out low:
"Bob the Conqueror."
Em replied without changing his expression:
"Whatever it is, man, it's fake anyway.."
The name hit him like an invisible slap, one he couldn't ignore.
He stepped closer, blinking with real anger and curiosity.
"Bullshit."
Em answered, cold as winter:
"Yes… whatever.The point is, we're in the same place now.To stay alive, each of us needs to do a service for the other.…You stand on my side, and I keep my mouth shut about the truth.By the way, why are you here?
Are you a pedophile?"
Silence.Bob stepped back, as if stabbed in a dignity he wasn't sure he possessed.He sat down, and began speaking—not with confidence, but like someone digging words out of a dark hole in his memory:
"I'm not a pedophile… what the fuck are you talking about.One night… around ten…There was this drunk guy in an alley, beating a kid.A helpless little kid.I saw it and I felt this… urge, And then it was like I was dreaming or something.When I came to… bam.I was on top of his corpse…His skull smashed to hell.And the kid? He vanished.The cops came… blamed me for the murder.Seven years now… between these walls."
Em smiled a smile that wasn't human:
"So… you're like me.A blackout born from pity.Same mistake. Same ending.And here I am in front of you, Bob…There are expectations… and things that happen… and they change everything."
The man's tone softened, but he stayed alert—a wolf suspicious of every shadow.
"I see…But don't trust anyone too much.Everyone here writes a story:
'I'm innocent' or 'I'm misunderstood'…And in the end…no one knows anything.Me? I had to tell many tales…That's how the name Bob the Conqueror was born.I told them I travel the world, I fight cartels,Interpol hunts me…And somehow it worked.I don't know how.I think they're just idiots.But if you won't talk…It helps us both.And you'll be safe too.Safety here… is rare.So value what you get…And don't betray me.Because if you do…Your safety dies.Each of us guards the other's back…A mutual
interest."
Em turned his face to the ceiling, as if the walls whispered secrets no one else could hear:
"After all of this…I still couldn't kill myself."
Bob froze:
"Why do you want to kill yourself?"
Em's voice came out like a child who had never learned what life meant:
"Why not?"
Bob swallowed:
"What stops you from doing it now?Well… not in this cell.The bastards will just add time to my sentence."
"I don't know…" Em said, rolling over.
"There's something in my chest… missing.Something telling me there's a reason to live…A purpose…But I don't know what it is yet.I'll wait.Time will tell me, Time… likes surprises."
Then he closed his eyes, and slept.
---
Inside the prison,there was no law—only a predator's logic.
Three groups ruled it:
[ The Locusts.]
[ The Black Cloud.]
[ And the Conquerors, led by the fake Bob.]
Anyone who belonged to none of them… was just prey.
The Locusts and the Black Cloud were in constant war—blood over blood.
The Conquerors' power was quieter.
Weirder.
Some of them ate human flesh in front of others… slowly… like a sick religious ritual.
Bob survived because he lied.Not because they believed him—but because they needed someone to lie for them.Someone to keep the world entertaining, even behind bars.
Em, on the other hand… simply existed.No purpose.No fear.The scar inside his chest was the only thread tying him to life.
Bob's company was an unspoken protection;no one dared touch Im or even talk to him.It wasn't respect… it was ignorance.They didn't know what he was,or why he formed an alliance with Bob the Conqueror…
so they feared him.
Until the day a new inmate arrived.The Black Cloud took him as prey.
They humiliated him, beat him, broke him—and he became their servant.
He was weak…and in this place, weakness was a sin.
He ate alone.He never raised his head.He breathed only in fear.
One day, he sat in a forgotten corner.Right beside him… Em was eating in silence.
The man looked at him in terror, thinking he was one of the cannibals.
But Em said without lifting his eyes:
"Relax… I won't eat you."
The man exhaled in relief:
"Oh… thank yo—"
Em replied, amused:
"Not yet."
The inmate's throat closed.He jumped away, desperately searching for another corner.
There, he saw someone he knew—Bob.
Surrounded by his crew, telling his tales about Italian gangs.
He rushed to him, breathless:
"Bob! You're here! My friend!"
Bob raised his head, face empty:
"Do I know you?"
The man stammered:
"What are you talking about, Bob?!Did you forget me that easily?
I'm your friend, Bran…We worked in the sewers together!"
Silence.Everyone stared at Bob, waiting for a single word that could open the gates of hell.
Bob stood.Kicked him hard.
"I don't know you, man.
Get lost."
Then turned to the others:
"Story's over."
And walked back to his cell as if nothing happened.
Em was watching.
He stood slowly, murmuring:
"Well… that was quick.Maybe I am the curse after all."
And followed Bob.
When he entered, he found him pacing in the tiny room, chewing his nails until they bled, repeating:
"What do I do?
What do I do?
What do I do?"
Em commented like it was weather talk:
"It's exposed.That guy told them everything.
You'll need a new lie.
And I need to find another liar."
But time gave them no chance.
The next day, in the prison bathrooms…Em went in to piss, thinking nothing of it.
The body was there.Bob.Dead over the toilet, eyes staring straight at him as if accusing him in frozen silence.
Em looked at him without emotion:
"So… it's settled then."
He closed that stall, opened the next one, and pissed.
Blood flowed under the door.
He didn't look up.
He didn't react.
As if what he'd seen was nothing more than a dull detail in a boring day.
When he walked out… they were waiting.The Conquerors.A tight human ring… with inhuman smiles.
One approached, scraping a blade across his cheek slowly:
"Why you, exactly?Did you know something and not tell us?"
Em was silent… then spoke with unsettling simplicity:
"The strange thing is you, boys.the fact that none of you see what he was from the start?Every time I heard the stories he told you… I thought:
These idiots must have a mental disability or something."
Laughter exploded.
The knife vibrated in their hands.
"Funny… very funny…But why aren't you laughing?"
Em didn't laugh.
He didn't answer.
They closed in like a pack.One held his head, another forced his jaw open, a third gripped his shoulders.
They were dozens.
Nothing to fight back with.
A final attempt to scream… then pain.
They were carving him a smile—a bloody smile—to follow him for the rest of his life.
They left him on the floor, tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth, blood spilling, the world devouring him like a germ.
To them… it was normal.
To us… monstrous.
Maybe prison made them what they were.
Maybe freedom made us what we are.
Who knows.