Broken Hands

130. Lonely

The sun sat high in the sky, glaring down on the men below. Their uniforms bore the marks of authority, but among them lurked wolves—men who walked the line between law and corruption. They wore badges, but their hands were dirtied with the same crimes they claimed to fight.

Grayson wished he had the power to do something about them. The country deserved better than to be infested with men who lacked a conscience, who saw justice as something to be sold to the highest bidder.

A camera flashed. Earlier pictures of him were taken, his bruised and battered face captured in official records. In no time, his fake name was added to the list of juveniles scheduled for transfer.

It was almost ironic. He had spent years narrowly avoiding juvie, and now, here he was—not because he had committed any crime against the law, but because he had no way out.

The bus loomed in the distance, gleaming under the sun like an omen of doom.

Grayson was dragged forward, his hands and legs bound in chains. For precaution, not like he was going to run, even if he wanted which he didn't, he couldn't. His body was barely holding itself together, every step sending fresh agony through him and he fought to remain standing.

They approached an officer standing by the door, checking names off a list.

"You forgot this one—Christopher Nolan," one of the man who he was confided to said as he shoved Grayson forward.

The officer flipped through the file, giving Grayson a once-over. His lips curled slightly. "A tough one, huh?" His voice was gruff, unimpressed.

The man holding Grayson chuckled. "A pain in the ass."

Grayson was handed over without another word and forced into the bus.

Inside, rows of boys in the same blue jumpsuit sat chained, their eyes sharp and weary. Their faces were rough, their postures either tense or slouched with exhaustion. Some had scars. Others, not even a scratch.

They stared.

Not with malice, not with curiosity—just a lingering look that lasted a little too long.

Grayson knew why. They were staring at the bruises, the cuts, the dried blood along his temple.

But he didn't care.

The moment he was shoved into a seat, the bus jolted to life, the engine rumbling as it pulled onto the road. The boys resumed their chatter, some talking in hushed voices, others laughing like they didn't have cuffs on their wrists and ankles.

Beside him sat a boy who looked like trouble. His hair was braided into cornrows, his arms thick with muscle despite his lean frame. Grayson felt the boy glance his way more than once, but he ignored him, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. He was too exhausted to care.

"Yo, mate."

Grayson didn't respond.

The boy shifted beside him, clearly expecting an answer. "What are you in for?"

Nothing.

But Grayson didn't bother saying it. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't lawless like the rest of them. The system had just slipped him in to move him somewhere else, like he was nothing but a contraband product.

The boy scoffed, shaking his head. "Got no tongue, huh?" His voice rose. "Hey!"

Grayson didn't flinch.

"You deaf? Or dumb?" The boy's voice tore through the bus, a sudden spike of anger making it sharper. The other inmates quieted, turning to watch.

"Wanna mess with me?!" He was nearly snarling now, his patience snapping like a brittle twig.