The workshop was actually outside the main prison, giving me my first taste of sunshine in what felt like forever. I paused for a moment, lifting my face toward the warmth, letting it soak into my skin like a man half-drowned and finally reaching air. H gave me a gentle nudge forward, though, pulling me from my momentary bliss.

"Don't want to be late," he said, walking the short passageway toward the barn-like building ahead.

Two guards stationed at the door opened it up as we approached, and a wave of noise and smells hit me at once. The rhythmic clang of hammers, the whirr of saws, and most of all, the rich, earthy scent of cut wood. It was such a contrast to the sterile stench of the prison and infirmary that I almost reeled from it. Maybe it was because of how long I'd been stuck breathing recycled air and sweat, but in that moment, I actually felt excited to step inside. For the first time in weeks, it felt like I could pretend, just for a little while, that everything was normal.

The building itself was massive. High enough to fit a ship, wide enough to build a fleet. Long rows of sturdy wooden tables filled most of the space, each one manned by prisoners wearing heavy aprons, bustling back and forth with tools and materials. It was almost easy to forget where we were. Until you noticed the guards of course. They were everywhere. Posted in pairs at every door, patrolling the raised catwalk that ran halfway up the walls, and most notably, manning the office overlooking the entire workshop floor. I caught sight of the guards above, armed with crossbows, and noted the angles. That office, perched high like a hawk's nest, would be a problem if I ever needed to move unseen. Another mental note for the growing pile.

Beneath the office was a wide doorway leading into what looked like a warehouse. As I watched, two prisoners carried out heavy wooden planks, confirming it. Beyond that, near the far wall, was a huge metal door with two guards flanking it like statues. Definitely the main entrance. Definitely not somewhere you just strolled through.

A hand clapped me on the shoulder, startling me out of my thoughts.

"A beauty, isn't she?" Ginge said, grinning like a proud father. "Dreams are made in here, my boy."

Carl gave him a shove. "Behave," he said with a laugh. "It's just a workshop. But yeah, it's a good job. Best you're gonna get in here."

The two of them peeled off toward a table on the far side of the floor where H and a couple of other men were already settling in. I made to follow them but was stopped by Tom, who motioned for me to stay.

"We'll need to introduce ya to the boss first," he said. "Good that you're eager though. That'll do you well here. Come on, she's upstairs."

I nodded and followed, marvelling again at how quick he was for an old man with a limp. As we made our way toward the stairs, I felt eyes on me from every direction. I'd like to think they were impressed, but it was more likely just curiosity about the new blood. Either way, I kept my posture straight and my expression neutral.

Two guards stood outside the office door. Tom gave a friendly nod to one of them and knocked twice.

"Come in!" a gruff voice called from within.

Tom gestured for me to enter first. I did, stepping into an office that was somehow both cramped and organized, filled with shelves stacked with papers, tools, and bits of woodwork samples.

Behind the desk stood a woman with cropped black hair and the look of someone who had seen everything twice and wasn't impressed either time. She wore a leather apron over a rolled-up tunic, and the front of it was stained and worn from hard use. Her serious gaze pinned me to the spot as she spoke.

"Well, if it isn't Brandon Horlock. The bosses said you were meant to be here days ago. I was starting to think you were a myth."

"Sorry about that," I said, offering a small smile. "Had a bit of an incident. Spent a few days in the infirmary."

"'Incident' is one way to put it," she said dryly. Her tone sharpened. "And not the way I would choose to do so. I don't take kindly to violence in my workshop, Mr. Horlock. I hope you've gotten it out of your system."

My fingers twitched at my sides. I wanted to defend myself, to explain that the fight hadn't been my fault, but I clamped my mouth shut. Something about her told me she wasn't interested in excuses. Better to own it.

"No need to worry," I said, forcing a closed-mouth smile. "I don't plan on doing any more fighting."

She held my stare for a long moment before giving a small nod.

"Good. Because if you start trouble in here, you'll find it's not just your cellmates you'll have to worry about." She leaned back slightly. "Name's Celine. You'll call me Celine or Boss. I won't respond to anything else."

Her tone made it very clear that any jokes, nicknames, or clever remarks would not end well for me.

"Understood. Feel free to call me Brandon," I replied.

"Good. You'll be working with Tom for now. He's been here long enough to know the ropes."

Tom chuckled from behind me. "Long enough I know how the ropes are made."

Celine smiled faintly before returning her attention to me.

"We take the work seriously here, Brandon. I expect you to do the same. I know you are serving a sentence, but trust me when I say you could be doing a lot worse. You might think it's a punishment working here but he workshop is a privilege. One you should intend to keep." She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in before continuing. "We encourage pride in your work. Excellence, even. The items made here aren't just for us. They're sold outside these walls. Real customers. Real expectations."

She leaned forward slightly, voice dropping in intensity.

"And occasionally, very rarely, when someone does exceptional work, it gets noticed. Sometimes by people powerful enough to offer sponsorship. Sometimes even by people willing to argue for early release."

She paused there, eyebrows raised, waiting for my reaction. This was the sales pitch then: be good, work hard, and maybe—just maybe—they'd let you out early. I could see how it would capture the imagination of others who came through here. It was a sliver of hope in a place where hope was a rare and dangerous thing.

If it hadn't been for my earlier conversation with Tom, I might have fallen for it too. But as things stood, I didn't think it was a realistic target. I was a complete novice when it came to crafting. For all I knew, I might end up being the worst to ever grace the workshop.

"Tom was telling me something about that earlier," I said, glancing over toward him. He gave me a small, knowing smile.

Although Celine's face fell a little at the realization that her pitch hadn't fully landed, she didn't seem disheartened. I doubted she expected every new recruit to jump at the chance anyway. She had probably seen her fair share of cynics and slackers over the years. Not that I planned to be one of them.

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"I doubt it'll be something I could achieve, given my lack of experience," I said honestly, "but I'll still do my best for you."

That earned me a real smile.

"Then it sounds like we'll get on just fine," she said. "Tom will have you working on the basics to start with. You might find it repetitive. Maybe even boring. But it's important for you to build your foundation, so I don't want to hear any moaning."

"Understood," I replied simply.

"You seem to be understanding a lot, Brandon. That's a good sign." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Let's see if you understand this next bit."

She cleared her throat and her voice took on a harder edge.

"If you so much as think about stealing anything from my workshop, and I do mean anything. The tools, materials, even a scrap of wood. Then I will personally string you up by your balls and flay you alive."

I opened my mouth to protest, to swear I had no intention of taking anything, but she raised a hand to cut me off.

"I know, I know," she said with a dismissive wave. "You're not going to take anything. You'd never dream of it. You'd swear on your dear old mother's life that you've turned a new leaf during your short time in prison." She scoffed. "I've heard it all before. Every excuse. Some even believe their own bullshit. But give it a few months, and next thing you know, they're 'borrowing' tools without permission. And when the guards find out, everyone pays."

It was obvious she felt strongly about it, and honestly, I couldn't blame her. It must have been maddening trying to run a functioning workshop surrounded by thieves, grifters, and desperate men. The heavy guard presence outside the building suddenly made a lot more sense.

She jabbed a thumb toward the window overlooking the workshop floor.

"When it comes to my stuff, and by my stuff, I mean everything in this building, don't think for a second any of it belongs to you. You step even a toenail past that doorway carrying something you shouldn't, and I'll be on you like a hammer." She leaned back slightly, her voice dropping lower. "I see everything in here. This is my domain. And when you walk into this room, I'm your god. Are we clear?"

"Understood," I said, keeping my face solemn.

She studied me for a moment longer before relaxing back into her chair.

"Good. Get yourself a pair of gloves and an apron. Tom will explain the rest. Now get to work. You've wasted enough time already."

Tom gave me a little nod, and together we headed back down the stairs. We didn't speak until we reached the ground floor, at which point he motioned for me to follow him toward the warehouse section.

"Don't mind the speech," he said once we were out of earshot. "Celine gives it to every rookie that walks through that door. She's decent enough to work for, but you'd do well to take her warning seriously."

He paused beside a row of shelves and leaned in, lowering his voice.

"And it's not just her you'd have to worry about if something went missing," he continued. "The guards'll tear through every cell looking for stolen goods if they think something's gone astray. And if the other prisoners find out it's because of you?" He let out a long, slow breath. "Celine says she'll string you up, but trust me, she wouldn't get the chance."

He turned and began rummaging through a box of gloves, pulling out a pair and sizing them against my hands before giving up.

"Have a root around and find a pair that fits you," he said gruffly. "I'm happy to guide you, but I'm not dressing you."

I laughed under my breath. "I don't think finding me gloves counts as dressing me, but fair enough. I can handle it."

The gloves were thick, heavy-duty leather that were built more for protection than comfort. Tom explained that you didn't need to wear them all the time. They were hot and made fine work harder, but when it came to dealing with sharp tools or hot metal, you'd regret it if you didn't have them handy. Fortunately, there were loops and strings on the apron to tie them to, so you could keep them close without wearing them constantly.

The warehouse itself was exactly what I'd imagined: high ceilings, heavy shelving loaded with boxes, piles of raw materials stacked neatly against the walls. A few prisoners bustled back and forth, shifting goods under the watchful eyes of patrolling guards.

There was a constant flow of movement because of the people bringing goods in from the workshop and carrying out new supplies. Tom pointed out the two prisoners assigned to manage inventory. Apparently, they tried to keep things organized, but it wasn't exactly a foolproof system.

"You do anything to screw with logistics, lad, and you'll have half the bloody place ready to string you up," Tom warned. "Same rules apply here as in the workshop. Keep your head down. Do your work. Don't cause trouble."

It was starting to sink in now just how important it was to stay in line. In a place like this, the dangers weren't just the guards or the brutal prisoners. It was the tiny mistakes. The casual thefts, the accidental offenses. The things that could spiral out of control and get you killed.

"We're gonna head onto the floor now, and I'm gonna have ya making pallets," Tom said.

An involuntary grimace must have crossed my face because he immediately burst out laughing.

"Not what ya were expecting?" he chuckled. "We always need pallets, and they're easy to make. It'll get ya used to the tools and the layout of the floor, because you'll need to deliver them to people too. I've got some nails and planks waiting for ya. When you get through them, I'll show you how to get more. Sound good?"

"Sounds good to me," I replied. His logic made sense, I supposed, and I wasn't exactly in a position to demand I start making something cooler.

To my disappointment, the table he set me up at was far from the others we had eaten lunch with. I'd been looking forward to getting to know them better. Tom claimed the table next to mine, but other than that, the closest person was a bored-looking guard.

"We're a bit out of the way here, aren't we, Tom?" I asked as I took stock of the items in front of me. Each table had the standard tools you might expect. Hammers, saws, nails. All neatly organized with painted outlines on the tabletop. Tom explained that each tool had to be returned to its exact place before the end of the day. Theft prevention, plain and simple. A system I was more than happy to follow.

He shrugged. "That's the rule, lad. The boss wants ya to get used to the job before ya start making too many friends. Says rookies pick up bad habits if they're left to chatter. She reckons it's better if ya learn the work before ya learn to slack off."

There was a distinct note of admiration in Tom's voice when he talked about Celine. It was becoming more obvious with every word. Although it was still too early for me to make firm judgments, it gave me hope. I liked Tom already. If he respected her, maybe she wouldn't be too bad to work under.

Still, her threats and warnings echoed in my head, louder than Tom's reassurances. It wasn't fear that made them stick. It was something far worse: temptation.

There was something about being warned not to do something that made it itch in the back of my brain. It lit a flame deep inside me, one I'd always struggled to snuff out. For the most part, I considered myself mentally strong. Resilient. Determined. But my one real vice was thievery, and it had its claws deep in me.

I hadn't always been a thief. The first time had been a necessity. Morgana, Dillon, and I were starving. There wasn't any noble decision-making involved. I needed to get that man's purse, plain and simple.

I'd been so nervous I thought I might be sick. Hands shaking, heart hammering, stomach tying itself in knots.

And then—success.

The rush was unbelievable. A wild, electric thrill that coursed through my veins like a drug. I thought my heart would burst, not from fear, but from exhilaration. I was hooked after that. Sure, for a long time it was about survival. It had to be. But somewhere along the way, it became about more than necessity. The bigger the risk, the bigger the rush. Planning out jobs in my head, working out all the angles. It was intoxicating. A mental high.

I didn't let it control me. At least, that's what I told myself because I certainly never fought against it either. And now? Now I was surrounded by valuable tools, materials, and supplies. All under heavy watch. All forbidden. It was the perfect setup. High risk, high reward. Exactly the kind of situation that would normally have me salivating with excitement. Even now, without meaning to, my mind had started spinning. What if I palmed a tool and hid it? What if I smuggled it out right under their noses? Where could I stash it? The scenarios ran through my head like they were playing on an endless loop.

Yeah. This was going to be a problem.

Fortunately, my logical side was louder. At least for now. I couldn't sell anything I stole. I had no use for a tool I couldn't openly use. And if I got caught? There wouldn't be any second chances. Between Celine's promised wrath and the inmates' thirst for vengeance over a lockdown search, I wouldn't last the week.

No, I had to be smarter. For now, I would be the model worker. I would keep my head down, keep my fingers clean, and resist every impulse screaming at me from inside. I wasn't here to play games. I was here to survive, and eventually, to escape. And nothing—not even my old habits—was going to get in the way of that.

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