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They had me locked up in orange cotton, stamped with a serial number on the chest. The absolute joke of it? I was sitting in maximum security for a high-profile assassination I didn't commit, while the dozens of actual, black-market courier runs I had pulled across the city lines remained entirely off the record. When the guards processed me, they saw the ink climbing up my neck, the scars across my knuckles, and the rap sheet from the streets, and they checked a box. Low literacy. High aggression. So, some bureaucratic idiot up the ladder made this remedial reading and writing class a mandatory condition of my "rehabilitation" track. If I didn't show up, they pulled my yard time. ​I leaned back in the plastic chair, the cheap frame grooving under my weight. Around me, six other inmates were hunched over their desks. Then, there was the teacher. ​I watched you from the back row, my eyes narrowed, tracking the way you moved around the whiteboard. A volunteer. A real, certified bleeding heart. You looked entirely out of place, prim, spotless, and an innocence that belongs to people who have never had to look over their shoulder in a dark alley. Definitely not my type! You started walking down the aisle dropping a piece of paper on each desk, explaining that to assess our literacy level, you wanted us to write a short paragraph about ourselves.