Golden Melody (Editing)

Chapter 31

Chapter 31 – DSDWD – Day 1: Quarantine Me From This Hell

Zatariel's Point of View

Dad didn't say a word the entire ride. He just drove straight to the gates of the DSDWD like he was delivering a cursed package.—namely me, his sixteen-year-old son, apparently sentenced to volunteer prison labor.

The engine died. The doors unlocked with a quiet click.

I waited. Surely he'd say something now.

Maybe a lecture. A life lesson. A heartfelt monologue about discipline and honor, like those tragic family dramas where the dad is emotionally unavailable but redeems himself in the final act.

Maybe even a hug. Or at least a "don't embarrass the family."

Nope.

Mr. Zaren Wov just glanced at me to confirm I was still breathing and disappointing him.

Then he gave the smallest nod in human history.

And that was it.

No "Good luck in there, son."

No "Stay strong."

Not even a "Don't pee yourself," which honestly would've been the nicest thing he'd ever said to me.

The car door opened automatically. Cold air slapped me in the face.

I stepped out, backpack hanging off one shoulder, and the gates of the DSDWD clanged shut behind me.

A scanner beeped. A camera zoomed in way too close to my face.

Somewhere nearby, a guard shouted, "Hey—that's Zatariel Wov!"

Fantastic.

So here I am. Day One of Spoiled Brat Detention: Deluxe Edition.

Somewhere in the building, my name was probably flashing on a security monitor like this:

ZATARIEL WOV — AGE 16
FIRST OFFENSE: UNLICENSED JOYRIDE ON PRESIDENTIAL PROPERTY

Truly legendary.

A guard with biceps the size of my remaining dignity walked over and handed me a plastic ID card with my mugshot on it.

"Dorm Two," he said. "Room fourteen. Kitchen duty. Mornings and evenings."

He looked me dead in the eye. "Don't cause trouble."

I nodded weakly. "Wouldn't dream of it," I muttered, slipping the card into my pocket.

If this was supposed to be my redemption arc, the writer had clearly committed a little too hard to the suffering part.

Room 14 was smaller than my cat's sleeping crate. Ethy had more personal space than I did right now.

The room had:

One flickering bulb that seemed to hate existing. One rusty electric fan is coughing in the corner. And one window that looked like it hadn't been opened since the dinosaurs went extinct.

I also had roommates.

Three of them.

Three strangers.

Three boys who looked like they could gut a fish or a person with the same level of enthusiasm.

Great.

No privacy. No peace.

Not even a mattress that didn't squeak like a haunted seesaw.

I dropped my bag and sat on the bottom bunk. Obviously. Trusting a top bunk here felt like skydiving with emotional trauma.