They Framed Me and Put Me in a Maximum-Security Prison—But They Forgot Who I Was

The concrete courtyard of the maximum-security penitentiary was a gray, unforgiving wasteland. Surrounded by towering concrete walls topped with coils of razor-sharp barbed wire, the yard was the ultimate testing ground. Overhead, under a diffused and heavy daylight, watchtowers loomed like silent sentinels, their armed guards looking down with cold indifference. On this particular afternoon, the usual hum of low conversations had died down, replaced by a tense, heavy silence. A crowd of inmates, all clad in bright orange jumpsuits, had formed a wide circle, their eyes locked onto the center of the yard.

The Standoff in the Yard

In the middle of the circle stood Skye. With her slender frame, a messy blonde ponytail, and wearing a dark grey tank top paired with orange prison pants, she looked entirely out of place in this brutal environment. Opposing her was Roman, a colossal, heavily tattooed man with short brown hair. He was the undisputed king of the yard, a man whose reputation for violence was known throughout the entire facility. Roman towered over Skye, a mocking grin plastered across his weathered face. He looked down at her as if she were nothing more than an insect to be crushed.

The shot opened low, looking up at Roman as he smirked. He flexed his massive, ink-covered arms, his chest expanding under the strain. He chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that echoed in the quiet yard. Then, he leaned in closer, his grin widening.

"Well, show us what you're capable of," Roman mocked, his voice dripping with arrogance.

The crowd of inmates cheered, eager for the spectacle. Roman took a step back, threw his head/arms back, and let out a terrifying, animalistic roar, attempting to shatter whatever courage Skye had left. But Skye didn't flinch. She stood completely unfazed, her blue eyes staring back at him with a chilling, absolute calm. They thought she was a victim. They had no idea who she really was.