Chapter 7 What Is a Weakling Doing Here

Sarah felt a chill creeping up the back of her neck.

She stared at the number "51" on the paper, then glanced at Claire standing beside her. Claire's lips were pressed tightly together. Her eyes were full of fear, but she still gave Sarah a slight nod.

That look seemed to say: just sign it, and they'd be one step further from that damn town.

Sarah closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She had no choice. Under the watchful eyes of the guard and Claire, she put pen to paper. Her hand shook so badly that her signature came out twisted and distorted.

As the pen touched the paper, something inside Sarah broke for good. 

From this moment on, she was no longer a freshman at Silverpeak College. She was no longer an ordinary girl with a future ahead of her. She was just subject Number 51, officially locked into the cage of this prison pairing program. 

For the next three months, her life, her death, her dignity, even every breath she took—none of it belonged to her anymore.

"Sign it and get in line over there." The staff member snatched away the agreement, not even looking at her.

Claire pushed through the crowd and grabbed Sarah's ice‑cold hand.

"Sarah! I got paired. My partner is Nelson Ortiz. I heard he was locked up at the same time as your guy—quiet, tough type. What about you? What's your partner Alexander like?"

Hope flickered in Claire's eyes, almost naive. She only knew that they finally had a chance to escape their past and get paid. She had no idea what the name Alexander represented among the guards—what kind of taboo, what kind of terror.

Sarah looked into Claire's bright, pure eyes. Her throat felt blocked, and she couldn't say anything. She didn't dare tell her. She didn't dare tell Claire that she'd been paired with a gang heir, a cold‑blooded killer. If she said it out loud, Claire would completely fall apart.

"I . . . I haven't met him in person yet either." Sarah forced out a weak smile. "He's probably similar to yours. The guard said he wants a reduced sentence and needs my psychological evaluation report. As long as I behave, I should be able to get through this safely."

"That's good, then." Claire patted her chest and let out a long sigh of relief. "We'll look out for each other. I'll be in the area right next door. If anything happens, just yell—I'll definitely hear you."

Sarah nodded numbly. She kept trying to comfort herself. Alexander needs a reduced sentence. He's smart. Smart people don't destroy their own ticket to freedom. She was just a tool. As long as she was obedient enough, she could survive.

But this self‑deception didn't last long.

Soon, all fifty‑one girls were ordered to line up on one side of the hall. Just then, a burst of sharp, mocking laughter broke the brief silence.

In the center of the hall stood a group of well‑dressed girls. They were completely different from everyone else—they weren't here to escape desperate circumstances. The heavy scent of their perfume overpowered the musty smell of the prison.

"Oh my God, I heard! My partner has a whole black mandala tattoo on his arm—it's so hot!" A girl in a short skirt twisted excitedly, playing with her designer handbag.

"This is way more fun than going out." Another blonde rolled her eyes, her tone deliberately showy. "My dad wanted to send me to Sylvanor for vacation, but I couldn't care less. I like this kind of thrilling experience. If I can reform a gang boss, imagine how cool that would sound later."

They huddled together in heated discussion. To them, this maximum‑security prison full of desperate criminals was just an exotic romantic adventure park to check off their list. They imagined themselves as angels of redemption. They naively believed that those blood‑stained criminals would lay down their violence because of their presence.

Sarah stood in the corner, watching them coldly. She felt it was absurd, even physically sickening. These girls raised in greenhouses had no idea what real violence was. They'd never seen a bloody belt, never heard the sound of bones breaking. They treated the prison like an amusement park, completely unaware that here, one wrong look could get you killed without a trace.

Sarah's gaze fell on the leading blonde girl. Perhaps her stare was too direct—it was quickly caught.

The girl immediately stopped laughing and walked straight toward Sarah. Her entourage clustered around her, stopping firmly in front of Sarah. She looked Sarah up and down arrogantly. Her eyes swept over Sarah's faded shirt, her ill‑fitting old sneakers, and finally landed on her timid, cautious face.

"You're not paired with some old janitor, are you?" she sneered. "Looking at how scared you are, you'll probably piss yourself before you even enter the cell."

Sarah clenched her fists in anger. But the instinct from years of being bullied made her habitually choose silence. She kept her head down, saying nothing, letting the vicious words rain down on her.

But her retreat didn't bring peace—instead, it made the blonde girl feel like she'd lost face.

"What are you acting all high and mighty for?" The blonde's expression turned cold. She hated this type the most—people who seemed pitiful but refused to bow down and submit. "I'm talking to you. Are you mute?"

Sarah remained silent, only instinctively raising her hand to cover the number on her chest.

"Bitch!"

The blonde girl cursed under her breath. With her friends watching, she felt humiliated. She suddenly raised her hand and swung it hard toward Sarah's pale, weak face . . .