The rain hadn’t stopped for three days.

It washed the dirt from the road but couldn’t cleanse the stench that always clung to Blackstone Correctional Facility.

The place looked older than time itself — iron gates screeching, bulbs humming like dying bees, guards moving through corridors lined with peeling blue paint. The air was thick with rust, sweat, and the weight of too many secrets.

They said the world outside had changed — cell phones, satellite TV, glass buildings.

But inside Blackstone, it was still the seventies. Radios crackled instead of televisions. Files stacked like tombstones in dusty corners. Even the guards carried wooden batons, not tasers.

Nothing here was fast — except rumors.

---

“You heard? New one’s coming tonight.”

The words echoed down the corridor.

Prisoners leaned out from behind their bars, eyes glowing in the dim yellow light. Rain drummed on the roof, and the smell of wet earth mixed with tobacco smoke.

“New prisoner?” a tattooed man asked.

“Yeah,” another replied, “and this one’s different.”

“How different?”

“They say… he’s just a kid.”

Laughter broke out — hollow, uneasy laughter.

In Blackstone, laughter was just another way to hide fear.

---

The South Wing

A gang of five sat around a dim bulb, dice rolling across the concrete floor. Their leader, Kaale Bhai, exhaled smoke and watched the rain trickle through a crack in the ceiling.

He’d been inside for twelve years — enough to know when silence meant danger.

“They say he killed twelve people,” murmured one of his men.

Kaale Bhai’s smile faded. “Twelve?”

“With his bare hands.”

He leaned back, tapping his cigarette on the floor. “A 19-year-old boy?”

The others didn’t respond.

Rumors always came dressed in exaggeration — but there was something about this one that didn’t sound made up.

Kaale Bhai’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll test him. See if he bleeds like the rest.”

---

The Guards’ Room

Upstairs, the security team sat around a wooden table, sipping chai from steel cups. The clock ticked louder than their voices.

Constable Ravi was the youngest — twenty-four, nervous, and always talking too much.

He waved the transfer file in his hand. “You people read this? Look at the note — ‘Extreme caution. No solitary, no open contact, no exposure to press.’ What kind of prisoner gets this treatment?”

Sub-Inspector Dutta yawned. “Probably some political case. They always make noise about them.”

Ravi shook his head. “He’s not political. He’s… a school boy.”

That made everyone look up.

The sound of rain filled the silence.

Dutta frowned. “You’re serious?”

Ravi nodded slowly. “Nineteen years old. Crime file’s half blacked out. But they say he smiled when they arrested him.”

Someone laughed nervously. “So what, maybe he’s insane.”

Ravi muttered, “Or maybe he knows something we don’t.”

---

The Arrival

By midnight, the rain had turned heavier — sheets of water cutting through the prison’s outer lamps.

A siren wailed once.

A truck rolled through the gate, its wheels slicing through mud.

Headlights hit the rusted bars, turning everything white for a second.

The guards lined up under the porch. The warden, short and sweating, barked orders as the back door of the vehicle creaked open.

Inside, a single prisoner sat, wrists cuffed, ankles chained. His head was bowed. A thin white shirt clung to his skin.

When they pulled him out, he didn’t resist.

He didn’t look scared either.

He just stared — eyes calm, almost empty.

Someone whispered, “That’s him…”

Another added, “He looks normal.”

That word — normal — hung in the air like a bad omen.

---

In the Shadows

From the upper corridor, a man stood watching the transfer.

He wasn’t wearing a guard’s cap. His uniform was darker, cleaner — pressed perfectly, as if discipline was stitched into its fabric.

His nameplate read: Raghav S.

He’d arrived that same evening, quietly, without ceremony. The prison staff whispered his name the same way they spoke of thunderstorms — inevitable, dangerous, unpredictable.

A new jailer, with a record of breaking bones and ending riots in blood.

No one knew why a man of his reputation had been transferred to this forgotten prison.

No one dared to ask.

He watched as the young prisoner was led through the gate, chains rattling softly like whispers of ghosts.

For a brief second, the boy looked up — and their eyes met.

Something sharp passed between them.

Recognition?

No. Something colder. Something the rain couldn’t wash away.

Raghav’s jaw tightened.

He turned to the guard beside him. “Put him in Cell 47. Alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

---

Midnight Silence

By the time the corridor emptied, the rain had stopped.

Aarav sat on the concrete floor of Cell 47, staring at the opposite wall.

No fear. No tears. Just silence.

He raised his hand and traced a finger across the old stains on the wall — shapes only he could understand.

From far away, a guard whispered to another,

“Strange… he hasn’t said a word.”

The other replied, “Maybe he’s planning something.”

And inside that cell, Aarav smiled faintly — a ghost of a smile, unreadable and terrifying.

Outside, the new jailer walked past the cells, boots echoing.

For the first time in years, Blackstone felt awake.

Something had changed.

Something had entered that shouldn’t exist in a place meant to cage the damned.

Morning came late to Blackstone.

The sky was still grey, the corridors still smelled of rust and wet dust.

But something felt new — sharper, colder.

At exactly 6:00 a.m., boots echoed through the hallway.

Guards straightened their backs as Raghav Sen entered the block.

His uniform was spotless, his posture straight, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t speak for the first few minutes.

Just walked — calm, steady, inspecting everything as though his eyes could measure discipline itself.

---

“The New Jailer”

By the time the siren announced breakfast, every guard knew his name.

They’d heard it before — stories of the man who once ended a prison riot single-handedly, who broke a man’s jaw for spitting on the floor, who never carried a stick because his hands were enough.

To the officers, he was both legend and threat.

To the criminals, he was just another uniform — for now.

The deputy warden whispered to a junior, “He looks calm. Maybe the stories were exaggerated.”

The junior nodded, “Hope so. Blackstone needs peace, not another storm.”

---

Rounds Begin

Raghav walked through the main corridor — Block A.

Cells on both sides filled with faces: murderers, thieves, addicts, men who had forgotten sunlight.

They watched him pass. Some curious. Some mocking. Some waiting for a reaction.

He ignored them all.

A prisoner whistled. Another laughed. One clapped slowly, muttering,

“Look at him… all quiet, all shiny. Won’t last a week.”

Raghav didn’t even glance.

His silence was heavier than any words.

---

The Smile Behind Bars

When he reached Cell 47, his steps slowed — not enough to notice, but enough to feel.

The boy inside was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, head tilted.

Eyes open. Calm. Observing him quietly.

No words were exchanged.

Just a few seconds of stillness — the kind that makes the air feel alive.

Then Raghav turned away.

The guards followed behind, whispering, “He didn’t even look angry. Maybe he’s one of those silent types.”

No one knew how fast silence could turn into violence.

---

The Cigarette

Halfway down the next corridor, the smell hit him.

Tobacco.

Raghav stopped.

Turned left.

At the far end, behind the bars, a man leaned casually against the wall, puffing smoke into the air, grinning as he saw the new jailer.

“Morning, sir,” the prisoner said mockingly, exhaling a thick cloud. “Want one?”

The others around him laughed.

The deputy warden opened his mouth — “Sir, ignore—”

But Raghav had already moved.

He unlocked the cell door with one smooth motion. The cigarette dropped from the prisoner’s fingers before his brain caught up.

Then came the sound — flesh meeting bone, again and again, echoing through the narrow hallway.

No one spoke.

No one stopped him.

Raghav’s blows were precise, deliberate — each one heavier than the last. The prisoner fell, tried to cover his face, but Raghav didn’t stop. Not until the cigarette was crushed into the floor beside a trail of blood.

He stood there, breathing slowly — not angry, not out of control.

Just... calm again.

He wiped his hands on the man’s shirt, turned to the guards, and said quietly,

“Next time someone smokes in my prison, I’ll burn his tongue instead.”

Then he walked away as if nothing had happened.

---

Aftermath

That evening, the corridors buzzed again — this time not with laughter, but whispers.

> “You heard what he did?”

“Broke the guy’s ribs for one cigarette.”

“They say he smiled while doing it.”

“No, no — he didn’t smile. That’s worse. He didn’t even blink.”

Even the boldest prisoners kept their eyes low when he passed.

By dinner time, every inmate knew one thing —

The new jailer wasn’t here to control them.

He was here to break them.

---

The Warning

In the guard room that night, Ravi whispered to his partner,

“I told you he wasn’t normal.”

His partner shrugged, staring at the rain through the window. “Maybe that’s what Blackstone needs — someone who doesn’t blink.”

Ravi lowered his voice.

“Still… something about him doesn’t fit. When he saw that new kid in Cell 47 — his face changed. Just for a second.”

The other guard frowned. “You sure?”

Ravi nodded. “Yeah. Like he’d seen a ghost.”

Outside, the thunder rolled again, rattling the old window panes.

And inside Cell 47, Aarav lay awake, staring at the ceiling — smiling faintly, as if he’d been waiting for this man all along.

Two days.

That’s all it took for the entire prison to change.

No smoking.

No tobacco.

No unnecessary talking.

The corridors that once smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes now carried a strange kind of silence — thick, uneasy, dangerous.

Every morning at six, the siren wailed.

You got up, did your work, ate your food, and went back to your cell.

No excuses. No delays.

Because now, there was a new rule everyone knew —

> “If you break the order, you don’t stand again.”

Word had already spread. In just forty-eight hours, three prisoners were on their beds — one of them, forever.

Another two were recovering with broken ribs, still trembling whenever they heard boots in the corridor.

No one said it aloud, but everyone knew the truth.

The new jailer didn’t care who you were, where you came from, or which gang protected you.

He only cared about one thing — discipline.

And once you crossed that line, Raghav didn’t think twice.

---

Araav sat quietly on his bed, staring at the faint light seeping through the iron bars.

He didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t react when others cursed the new rules, didn’t even flinch when the guards slammed their sticks against the bars to make prisoners move faster.

He just… existed.

Calm. Cold. Untouched.

The cell door clanged open.

“Prisoner 47–A,” Ravi called out, his tone hesitant. “Someone’s here to meet you.”

Araav looked up, his expression blank. “Who?”

“Didn’t say. But he looks like he doesn’t belong here.”

---

In the visitor’s room, a young man in a crisp shirt waited behind the glass wall, tapping his foot impatiently.

His name was Rohit, son of a big businessman — someone whose money usually spoke louder than words.

As soon as Araav sat down across the glass, Rohit grabbed the phone.

“Araav, listen to me. Things are getting bad in college. You know how it is — fights, police, all that crap. We can’t handle it without you, man.”

Araav didn’t respond. His eyes stayed fixed on Rohit’s reflection in the glass.

Rohit sighed, lowering his voice.

“I talked to my father’s lawyer. They said you’ll be out by Monday. Just… stay quiet till then, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”

For a second, something flickered in Araav’s expression — not anger, not fear. Just a strange calm that even Rohit didn’t understand.

Then he nodded slowly. “Monday,” he said softly.

The visit ended.

Ravi led Araav back to his cell, the chains on his wrists clinking softly.

Nothing about him seemed dangerous.

Nothing at all.

---

Later that evening, Ravi was finishing paperwork at his desk.

The visitor forms were routine — names, signatures, times.

He flipped through them absentmindedly until one detail caught his eye.

> Prisoner 47–A

Name: Araav Sen

He froze.

The name echoed in his head like a memory that didn’t belong to him.

“Sen…” he whispered.

A few seconds passed before he realized he was already walking — papers still in hand — straight toward the jailer’s office.

---

Raghav’s office was dimly lit, as always.

The ceiling fan turned lazily above him.

He sat behind the desk, reading something in silence when Ravi entered.

“Sir,” Ravi started cautiously, “about prisoner 47–A… I just noticed his full name. It’s—”

Raghav looked up.

For a moment, his eyes were unreadable — and then, slowly, a faint smile curved on his face.

He leaned back in his chair.

“I know,” Raghav said quietly.

His tone was calm… too calm.

Ravi stood frozen at the door, the paper trembling in his hand.

Raghav’s eyes drifted toward the small barred window, where the moonlight fell on the cold floor.

He smiled again — this time, darker.

“Some names,” he said softly, “always find their way back.”