Monsters

Nikolai

The helicopter blades thundered above me, loud enough to rattle through bone. Cold air blasted through the open side door carrying the sharp bite of the salty ocean as it flashed past beneath us. I leaned my head back against the crawl wall, closing my eyes for a second, letting the vibration of the aircraft roll through my body. For a moment it almost felt peaceful.
Almost.
When I opened them again the island was coming into view beneath us. A slab of black rock roaring out of grey water. Even from the air it looked wrong. No beaches, no trees. Just jagged cliffs and a fortress carved straight into stone like someone had decided hell needed better architecture. Floodlights ringed the outer walls despite it being daylight, and watchtowers stabbed up toward the sky like spears. Seagate penitentiary, the world's most secure prison.
Only one way in.
Only one way out.
My home for the next thirty-five to life.
A guard sitting across from me watched me like I might sprout wings and suddenly fly out of the helicopter. As if chains connecting my wrists to my ankles then to the floor and a literal muzzle over my face weren't enough to keep me in my seat.
"Enjoying the view, Romanovsky?" He shouted over the engine.
I turned my head slowly meeting his eyes. Bright blues tend to make people uncomfortable. My mother used to say it was because they looked too calm. I gave him a small smile.
"Beautiful," I said in my thick Russian accent. "Very... welcoming."
He didn't smile back.
The chains around my wrists clinked when I shifted, thick steel biting into my skin. They'd been worried I might break the last pair. They weren't wrong.
The pilot banked the helicopter and the island grew larger beneath us. I leaned forward slightly studying it. High walls. Motion sensors along the perimeter. Two inner yards separated by razor wire. Him placements on the towers. They thought they were clever, they thought this place was impossible to escape. I felt a slow grin pull at the corner of my mouth. Impossible just meant nobody had done it yet.
The helicopter dropped lower, wind whipping violently through the cabin now. I caught sight of the landing platform bolted onto the side of the prison like a parasite. Armed guards were already waiting, black uniforms, rifles raised.
A welcoming committee. Lucky me.
One of the guards beside the door grabbed my arm. "Don't get any ideas Russian." He used my home like an insult, as if my nationality disgusted him. I looked down at his hand gripping my bicep and then back up at him. "If I had idea," I said quietly, "you would already be problem." For a moment he hesitated. Then the helicopter touched down with a violent jolt and the door slid open the rest of the way. More wind screamed into the cabin as two guards hauled me to my feet and dragged me toward the exit after unfastening me from the floor.
The first thing that hit me when my boots hit the platform was the smell. Salt. Metal. And something darker beneath it. Blood lived in places like this.
I straightened slowly as they unhooked one chain from the helicopter restraints, keeping the cuffs on my wrists, but allowing me to walk without stumbling. Around me the prison loomed like a giant watching my every move. Hundreds of tiny black windows stared down. Inside them were monsters. Murderers, war criminals, men who had burned cities and buried bodies in the desert. The worst people on this planet.
And now me.
A guard shoved my shoulder hard causing me to stumble half a step forward before I was grabbed and steadied again. I stared at his face for a second, committing it to memory. "Move." I walked forward between them, chains clinking with every step, boots echoing against the metal platform. A large steel door groaned ahead of us, darkness waiting on the other side. I stepped through without hesitation, because the moment that door closed behind me I wasn't trapped, I was just inside the puzzle.
And I've always been very good at solving puzzles.

The first door slammed shut behind me with a heavy metallic clang. The sound echoed down the concrete corridor like a gunshot. Good acoustics. Bad place to scream. Two guards pushed me forward, their boots striking the floor in practiced rhythm. The hallway smelled like disinfectant and damp concrete. No windows. No sound except footsteps and the distant hum of machinery buried somewhere in the prisons bones.
Processing. Every prison had one. A place where they stripped you down, catalogued you, and reminded you exactly how powerless you were supposed to feel. We stopped in front of another steel door. One of the guards punched a code into a keypad and the door buzzed open. A sound that no matter how used to prisons i got would always haunt me.
Inside was a stark white room that felt colder Essen the ocean air outside. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Cameras stared from every corner. A long metal table sat against one wall, three more guards waiting inside, one of them looking up from a clipboard as I entered.
"Romanovsky." It wasn't a question, he knew exactly who I was. His accent was American, flat, bored. He looked me up and down like he was inspecting livestock. "Welcome to intake."
The chains on my wrists were finally removed, though the cuffs stayed on. My ankles were unshackled too, but the guards didn't step far away. Rifles hung from straps across their chests. Just in case.
The man with the clipboard nodded toward the centre of the room. "Clothes off." Simple. Direct. I'd done this before. Russian prisons, private detention facilities, military holding cells. They all followed the same humiliating routine. So I didn't argue.
My jacket came off first, dropping onto the metal table with a dull thud. Then my shirt. Boots. Pants. The cold air wrapped around my skin immediately. Someone behind me whistled quietly. "Jesus," one of the guards muttered. Years of training and fights had carved muscle into my frame like stone. Broad shoulders, a scar across my ribs from a knife fight in Odessa. Another on my collarbone. Evidence of a life lived violently. The guard with the clipboard barely looked impressed.
"Underwear too."
I slid them down and stepped out of them without hesitation. Humiliation only works if you let it. The guard who had led me from the landing pad stepped closer now. He was big with a thick neg and a crooked grin that sat under a patchy beard. He circled me slowly, too slowly. His eyes dragged over my body in a way that had nothing to do with security. If we were out on the streets I would have hit him for looking at me like that, but here with my hands cuffed together in a room of armed guards I had to let him.
"Damn," he said, chuckling. "They been feeding you steroids in Russia, Romanovsky?" I didn't answer. The clipboard guard spoke again. "Standard search, arms out." I lifted my arms slightly and the bearded guard stepped in to do the pat-down. At first it was routine, hands along my arms, over my shoulders, down my sides. Then they lingered. His fingers pressed into my stomach like he was testing something. "Pretty boy face too," he said, "you're gonna be real popular in here." One of the other guards laughed quietly. I stayed still.
His hands moved lower, too low. They brushed across my hips and stayed there. "Turn around." I turned. "Bend over." Standard. I placed my hands on my knees and bent slightly. I coughed as instructed, same as usual. The room went quiet for a moment. Then the guard behind me snorted. "Well look at that." Another chuckle, this time from across the room. "You hear about this guy?" The bearded guard said to the others. "Romanovsky. Killed three guys with his bare hands."
"Four," someone corrected. They forgot about the guy who died when he reached the hospital, so it was five. The bearded guard hummed thoughtfully. "Yeah...well." His voice dropped lower. "Hands wont help you much in here if someone decides they want a piece of you." His hands pressed against my lower back, too familiar. "Guys in this place get lonely." My jaw tightened slightly, but still I didn't move. He leaned closer and I could smell the mint of his toothpaste on his breath. "So tell me Russian..." he murmured in my ear. "You gonna scream when someone-" I moved. Fast.
Before he finished his sentence I straightened and spun around, my cuffed hands snapping up and slamming into his throat. The crack of bone against cartilage echoed through the room. He stumbled back choking, eyes wide. Rifles snapped up instantly.
"HEY-"
"ON THE GROUND-"I didn't move toward them, I just stood there, breathing slowly, blue eyes locked on the guard clutching his throat. My voice was quiet when I spoke, cold. "In Russia," I said calmly, "we call man like you sobaka."
Dog.
The room was frozen now, guns trained on my chest. The bearded guard whenever, trying to breathe, a scowl etched into his red face. One wrong move and they'd shoot. But I didn't feel like moving, instead I tilted my head slightly. "And if you touch me again," I continued softly, "I will break your hands." A long silence filled the room. Then the clipboard guard sighed like someone whose day had just become very inconvenient. "Jesus Christ..." he looked at the others. "Finish the damn intake." His eyes flicked back to me.
"And Romanovsky?" I met his gaze.
"If you try that again," he said flatly, " you wont make it to a cell." I held his stare for a moment then slowly lifted my arms again like nothing had happened. Because one thing about prison was always true no matter what country you were in. Respect mattered. And I wasnt about to start my time here letting someone think I was weak.