

A FACE WITHOUT FEAR

 

The Jailer

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.”