In Sweetwater, noble families carry on a legacy of unique powers, known as "sweets," passed down through bloodlines. These abilities, woven into the city's daily life, define status and influence. Among these families, the Graves were once a respect...
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The juvey center was a bit north of the police station; unfortunately, from Vivienne's house, it was across town. We took a cab to the other side of town lest we had to walk more—my feet were beginning to kill me. After a little while, the Juvenile Detention Center loomed ahead of us, a stark contrast to the grandeur of Vivienne's estate. Where her home was opulent and brimming with old-world charm, this facility was utilitarian, cold, and devoid of personality. The building itself was a monolithic block of grey concrete, its windows small and heavily barred. The surrounding fence was topped with razor wire, a silent reminder of the lives that remained locked behind its walls.
As we approached, I noticed the faint hum of security cameras swiveling to track our movements, their lenses gleaming ominously in the fading daylight. The entrance was marked by a set of double doors reinforced with steel, flanked by two guards who looked more bored than alert. We passed through with minimal resistance, the guards giving us a brief once-over before waving us inside.
The interior of the center was equally bleak. The walls were painted a pale, institutional green, and the air was thick with the scent of disinfectant. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, sterile glow that seemed to sap the warmth from the room. The floor was scuffed tile, each step echoing faintly as we made our way down the corridor. Behind the occasional barred window, I caught glimpses of the young detainees—some pacing restlessly, others sitting with vacant stares. Their eyes told a story of hopelessness, anger, and survival.
At the front desk, a middle-aged clerk with tired eyes and a receding hairline greeted us with a curt nod. After a brief exchange, I filled out a few necessary forms. The paperwork was as dry and lifeless as the building itself, but it was a necessary evil. With everything in order, we were led through a series of security doors to a private visitation booth.
The booth was simple: a metal table bolted to the floor, two equally uncomfortable chairs on either side, and a thick pane of glass separating us from where Edward would be seated. A small, outdated intercom was mounted to the wall, its grille rusted around the edges, but it would serve its purpose.
Kane mused, "Been in here once or twice; always gives me the creeps. Feels like we're walking into a graveyard."
I snorted. "I assume this must be familiar, then. You'll know what Edward is going through then. Let's just hope he has some information for us."
Moments later, the door on the other side of the glass swung open, and Edward entered. He was a wiry kid, no older than sixteen, with dark circles under his grey eyes and a guarded expression. His black hair was messy, sticking up in random tufts as if he'd spent the entire day running his hands through it. His clothes—a standard-issue grey jumpsuit—hung loosely on his frame, making him appear smaller, more vulnerable. Yet, there was a sharpness in his gaze, a wary intelligence that suggested he hadn't lost all fight. He had fair skin, but was rather pale for his age, suggesting he wasn't a sporty guy.
