Warning:Age-gap, NonCon, Vincent is more effeminate
Vincent Charbonneau had never imagined that life could get darker than it had already been. At fourteen, he had felt the weight of the world suffocating him, its heavy hands gripping his throat every day he woke up. The bruises that peppered his arms, the insults that still rang in his ears, the slurs that echoed through the halls of that damned school- they all haunted him. But it had been the laughter that broke him, the laughter of that boy as he mocked Vincent's weakness, his femininity, and his sexuality.
The day Vincent snapped wasn't premeditated. It wasn't something he'd planned. It just... happened. He was in art class, staring blankly at the pile of magazines they were supposed to be cutting from for collages. The boy had approached, his smirk plastered on his face like always, and said something vile, something about how Vincent would never be a "real man." The words had blurred in Vincent's ears. All he saw was the boy's neck, and before he could process what he was doing, the scissors were in his hand and pressed into the soft, pulsing flesh. The warm blood had splattered across Vincent's face like an explosion of paint, soaking his clothes, his skin.
The boy's body had crumpled to the floor, his eyes wide with shock as he gurgled on his own blood. Vincent hadn't felt fear then. Just... relief. An eerie, terrifying kind of peace settled over him as the world erupted into chaos around him.
Now, years later, he sat in the back of a prison transport van, handcuffed and shackled, the cold metal biting into his wrists. He was being transferred from juvenile detention to an adult facility. He was seventeen, and despite how much time had passed, the memory of that day still played in his mind like a broken record. Everyone in juvie knew his story. They whispered about him, about the quiet boy who had stabbed his bully to death. Some admired him for it, others feared him. But in the adult prison, Vincent knew it would be different. Here, he wasn't just the troubled kid who had snapped-he was another body in a sea of violent men. Some of these people had committed crimes far worse than murder.
The fear gnawed at him, sinking its claws deep into his chest. He tried to maintain his usual stoic demeanor, but his hands trembled slightly as the van rattled down the road. He wondered if the other prisoners would target him, if they'd sense his fear and tear him apart like wolves descending on a wounded deer. He wasn't like them. He wasn't some hardened criminal who killed for fun. He had killed for survival. He had killed because there was no other choice.
The facility loomed ahead like a grotesque monolith, its grey walls towering over the landscape, casting long shadows in the dying light of the afternoon. Vincent's stomach twisted as they entered through the massive gates, the sound of them clanking shut behind them felt like the final nail in his coffin.
The guards didn't say much as they processed him. He could hear the chatter of other inmates down the hall, their voices rough and tinged with malice. Some of them catcalled, others whistled. The guards didn't care. They never did.
Vincent was led to his cell, the door creaking open as they shoved him inside. The cell was small, barely big enough to fit the rusted metal bed and a toilet. The walls were covered in crude drawings and graffiti, a bleak reminder of the men who had lived there before him.
He sat down on the bed, his heart hammering in his chest. He pulled his knees up to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible, his mind racing. He had to survive. Somehow, he had to make it through this.
It wasn't long before the door to his cell opened again, and a figure stepped inside.
Rody Lamoree.
Rody was older, probably in his early thirties. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a rugged, almost intimidating kind of attractiveness. His thick auburn hair was messily styled, and there was a mischievous glint in his green eyes. At first glance, Rody looked like he didn't belong in a place like this. His smile was warm, almost kind, the kind of smile that could put anyone at ease. But Vincent had learned a long time ago that you couldn't trust first impressions.
