Stunning Prisoner - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Margaret Osford’s hand crumpled the newspaper she was holding. In prison, a newspaper was a kind of privilege. And wherever people gathered, a leader naturally emerged—and only the leader enjoyed such privileges.

“Ha, Lord have mercy.”

Margaret frowned as she read the headline on the front page of a newspaper issued a week ago.

[The Murderer of Hayel William, a Great Saint of Our Time, Sentenced to 10 Years in Catena Prison]

And who was Hayel William? In his youth, he had devoted his loyalty to Sono. In his later years, he supported orphans with nowhere to go, performing countless acts of charity for the homeless. And when an epidemic broke out—when everyone else shunned the afflicted—it was he who reached out to them first, praying with them.

In Sono, if you didn’t know who Hayel William was, there were only two explanations: either you had dementia, or you were a newborn child.

While Margaret, his fervent devotee, clasped the cross hanging from her neck and prayed for him, the inmates in her cell gathered around the newspaper she’d dropped.

“Good God, even the devil would cry.”

One of them sighed. Even they had to admit, this was a crime so heinous it was beyond words.

They were hardened criminals themselves, but even they clicked their tongues at the killer of Saint Hayel. There are some lines you simply don’t cross—sacred boundaries of absolute good. And this murderer had crossed that line, far, far beyond.

“When she comes in, I’ll kill her.”

Margaret clenched her thick hand into a fist as she made the declaration.

Cardinal Hayel William had been her savior—the one who gave a vagrant like her a new life. Even if, afterward, she had remarried repeatedly and sawed her husbands to death, that didn’t change the fact that Hayel was her absolute redeemer.

“Look closely at the face of the bitch who killed Father.”

Margaret slammed her fist down, pointing at the black-and-white photo of a young woman with platinum-blonde hair. She wasn’t the only one. Most of Catena’s inmates were already sharpening their knives in anticipation of the saint’s killer’s arrival.

And then the day came.

The metallic slam of the cell door echoed harshly. A young woman stepped inside and stopped. Her long, fine, silken hair shimmered down to her waist. She took another step forward.

“This newbie’s got some nerve.”

One of the prisoners sitting in the front stood up. Her height was surprising enough, but her face made jaws drop a second time—so much so it drew genuine admiration.

“Damn… what a knockout.”

The words were crude, but she couldn’t think of anything better. The newcomer’s beauty was overwhelming. If someone had claimed she was a doll rather than a person, it wouldn’t have been hard to believe. Her delicate features looked as if they’d been sculpted with painstaking precision, all packed onto a small, perfect face.

Her eyes were clear and transparent like glass, holding the bright hue of a summer sky. Her pale skin was smooth as sifted flour, soft-looking to the touch. The beauties praised in the outside world couldn’t compare. This newbie was the kind of woman who could steal a person’s soul in an instant.

“She’s even prettier than in the papers.”

No wonder her face had been plastered all over the news.

And yet, the fragile-looking newcomer didn’t seem intimidated at all. Annoyed by her silence, the prisoner jabbed at the number tag pinned to her chest.

“A9012. Are you deaf?”

She poked Billy’s chest. Billy staggered back a step.

“I just said you’re pretty enough to die for, newbie. Shouldn’t you at least say, ‘thank you’?”

Mistaking Billy’s bowed head for fear, the woman smirked.

Just then, the cell bars opened again, and Margaret entered.

“Perfect timing, Boss.”

The prisoners surrounding Billy immediately stepped back. Margaret was the only level-one inmate in the room. Catena didn’t sort cells by rank—the prisoners were thrown in together regardless of crime.

Margaret grabbed Billy by the chin and forced her face upward.

“Today’s my lucky day. Even in this hellhole, the Lord has granted my humble wish.”

The cross necklace hanging from Margaret’s neck swung before Billy’s eyes. Her name, Margaret Osford, was scratched across the center in messy script.

Clink, clink. The cross swayed left and right, its surface smooth like the lead of a bullet casing. Billy lowered her eyes, then raised them again, expressionless, to stare back at Margaret.

***

Before I was assigned to a cell, I’d been given a quick rundown of the prison’s rules. Out of all of them, two stuck in my head with perfect clarity.

[Attack a guard for any reason, and you’ll be executed on the spot.]

[Because this prison is co-ed, sexual activity is strictly forbidden. With men, with women—it doesn’t matter. If caught, you’ll be executed on the spot.]

What stuck wasn’t the “sexual activity” part, but the word “executed.”

This place wasn’t called the worst prison on earth for nothing. Execution under the guards’ discretion was perfectly legal here. And out of all the rules, only those two included the phrase “immediate execution.” Even half-listening, you couldn’t miss it.

Strangely, there was no mention of solitary confinement or sentence extensions.

‘Like an abandoned sheep pasture.’

That was my simple impression.

It meant they didn’t care what happened inside. Like sheep in a pasture with no fence and no shepherd—when a wolf came, all you could do was offer up your flesh. No one would pay attention to your last pitiful cries before being devoured.

That was why prison terms meant nothing in Catena. This was where the most vicious criminals gathered. Living shoulder to shoulder with them from dawn till night was hell already.

“You sure are quiet, newbie.”

The woman raised the hand gripping my chin, forcing my head back. Naturally, my gaze lifted with it. From the engraved letters on her cross, I learned her name—Margaret. Remembering her surname was more trouble than it was worth.

Margaret squeezed my chin painfully and asked:

“Why did you kill Father?”

I looked down at Margaret’s arm, packed tight with muscle. She was a full head taller than me, with a thick neck and crushing grip. Her raw strength was nothing to scoff at.

I’d faced bodies like this before—muscles swollen with power, bursting when they struck. The last time was when I ran into a creature hybrid, right as it started shedding.

“Newbie, I said—why did you kill Father?”

Lowering my eyes, I pieced together the answer Margaret wanted to hear. I forced my voice to tremble, trying to sound as regretful as possible.

“…I’m sorry. For killing your father.”

Not that I had any idea who her father was. Honestly, how many people recognize the father of a woman they’ve never seen before?

“Right? You should be sorry.”

Smack—

‘Huh?’

My cheek burned. I raised my hand to the side of my face. Heat radiated, and the copper taste of blood trickled down my throat. It wasn’t a slap—it had to be her fist. It felt like my whole face had been hit, not just my cheek.

“My brother told me not to throw the first punch. But hey—this doesn’t count as the first punch, does it?”

“What the hell are you muttering, bitch?”

The woman who’d been scowling at me broke into a twisted grin.

“Too bad for you. I don’t take apologize. You’re gonna get beaten half to death before you croak, you rotten whore.”

Crack.

My head whipped to the other side. I lifted it again, only to see her hand already raised high.

But come on, brother—haven’t I held back enough? Not once, but twice. Left and right, evenly.

‘Funny, isn’t it? When have I ever listened to you?’

The thought crossed my mind as I reached out. Margaret’s eyes flared in surprise when I suddenly grabbed her wrist. I spoke first.

“But… who is your father, exactly?”

I’d thought an apology would be enough to get this over with, but now I was curious. Had I ever taken a job that involved her father? I couldn’t remember every face.

Apparently, my words were too creative for her liking. Margaret foamed at the mouth, literally, and I winced slightly at the spray of spit.

“What? Listen to this bitch run her mouth.”

She sneered at the scar near my collarbone, left behind when they implanted the chip that suppressed my ability before incarceration. My nametag was blue, not white—another clear sign I was an ability-user.

“Doesn’t matter if you’ve got powers. In here, you’re just another normal little shit. One hit and you look like you’ll blow away. Know your place.”

Not one hit. Two already. Why lie about it? I rubbed my swollen cheek and fixed my gaze on her.

“Ah, yeah. I’ve heard that before. That I’m on the fragile side.”

I admitted it plainly. I wasn’t broad-shouldered or heavily built.

So Margaret wasn’t exactly wrong. Most ability-users, without their powers, are nothing special. They get drunk on that power and skip real training. If only I hadn’t opened my mouth back then, things might’ve turned out differently.

At eight years old, I was “pure,” in the naïve sense. Pure enough to be tricked by the honeyed words of the retired soldier who took in me and my brother when we had nowhere else to go.

It was during one of my brother’s daily outings. I hated the fact that he and the old man kept a secret from me.

“I’m going with him. Why can’t I go? Huh?”

I still remember the sly glint in that soldier’s eye as he glanced down at me.

“Well… there is one way. Want to try it?”

“Yes! I want to help too.”

“But—you can’t tell your brother.”

I nodded firmly, having no idea what kind of filth lay under that pinky-swear.

From that day on, under the soldier’s guidance, brutal training began. I ran until I cried, until my thighs seized in cramps. He had no idea what “age-appropriate” meant for an eight-year-old.

When my brother found out, he fought the soldier immediately. But by then, I had already learned the truth about the monsters that killed our parents.

“You promised to keep it from her!”

“What, keep it secret forever? Your sister has the right to know too.”

“He’s right, brother. I’ll kill those monsters too. I want to be strong.”

The monsters’ true nature was creature hybrids.

Once I joined my brother’s work, I never left. If you had to trace back the origin of my path—the reason my life turned into this—it all began with that retired soldier.

Snapping back from the memory, I grabbed Margaret’s face in return and said:

“But now, we’re done here, aren’t we? So… grit your teeth.”

Wouldn’t want her biting off her own tongue.