The cigarette burned down faster than Jovan Jorm expected. The prison block was loud tonight, shouting, metal clanging, laughter echoing off concrete. He loved it, letting the noise press against his skull. Across from him, three inmates argued over a loss they didn't intend to recognize, their voices sloppy with confidence. He exhaled smoke through his nose, his head tilted back, counting the seconds. He always gave cheaters time to realize their mistake before the beating started. They had made a deal. Deals were supposed to mean something.
"Ehh, thats about it." Jovan smiled.
"HUH? What's up? You got something to say about the game?" one of the inmates challenged.
The name echoed faintly in his head as the chair scraped back... Jovan Jorm. It was the name they used. The name on the records. Close enough to feel familiar, but not enough to feel right. He didn't dwell on it. There were louder things demanding his attention.
Jovan leaned his entire body into the punch, his fist smashing into the inmate's jaw. The man staggered back and collapsed, skull snapping sideways from the unblocked hit.
"Get him!" another inmate snarled.
The first counterpunch caught Jovan across the cheek, snapping his head sideways and flooding his mouth with blood. He leaned into it, shoulder-first, crashing into his attacker's chest and driving both of them into the table. Cards scattered across the floor as another fist slammed into his ribs, then another, the blows coming fast and stupid. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head down, smashing his face against the concrete. The noise around them swelled into a roaring mess of shouts, boots, and laughter, and Jovan clung to it as his vision blurred.
There was no technique to the fight. Just bodies colliding, hands clawing for eyes and throats, knuckles splitting against teeth. Jovan felt something crack in his nose and laughed through the pain as he bit down hard on the forearm pressed against his mouth, tasting sweat and iron. He swung blindly, felt his fist connect with something soft, heard a grunt. It didn't matter who he hit. Every strike he took burned hot and sharp, each one a reminder that he hadn't faded into silence yet.
A kick swept his legs out from under him, and Jovan hit the floor hard, the breath tearing out of his lungs. Boots came down on him immediately, stomping his ribs, his back, until he curled inward on instinct, arms locked tight around his head. The noise dimmed for a second, replaced by a ringing void that made his chest seize. His fingers twitched, panic creeping in, and for one fleeting moment he thought this was it. That the sound had disappeared with the ringing in his ears.
Then the shouting came rushing back. Someone dragged him upright by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Jovan sucked in a painful breath and started laughing. It wasn't loud at first. Just a broken chuckle that grew into something ugly and raw, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth as he grinned at them through swollen eyes. His body throbbed, bruises already blooming beneath his skin, but he was still here.
The guards arrived late, as they usually did. Batons thumped against backs, voices barking orders without interest. Someone slammed Jovan face-first against the wall, metal biting into his cheek as cuffs snapped around his wrists. He didn't resist. He was still smiling, the noise of the block fading behind him as he was dragged down the corridor.
The walk to the infirmary was quieter.
Too quiet.
Jovan's fingers twitched against the cuffs, his jaw tightening as the echo of boots replaced the riot he'd left behind. He focused on the scrape of his shoes against the floor, counting each step until the white lights of the prison hospital finally came into view.
"Again?" the doctor muttered.
Jovan was dumped onto the examination bed with practiced roughness. The man in the coat didn't look surprised. He barely looked up, already pulling on gloves, eyes scanning bruises and swelling like familiar landmarks. Split lip. Cracked nose. Fresh bruises layered over old, yellowed ones. Knuckles torn open.
"You're going to ruin your hands like this," the doctor said flatly, lifting one to inspect it.
Jovan glanced at him, expression empty, then flinched as the movement tugged at his ribs.
"Every time they move you to a safer block, you end up back here within the week," the doctor went on, more observation than accusation.
He dabbed antiseptic into Jovan's cuts and wrapped his wounds quickly, efficiently. Minutes later, the gloves were off, the clipboard snapped shut.
The doctor left without another word. It was around lunchtime.
The room went still.
Jovan tapped his fingers against the metal bed, rhythmically.
One. Two. Three.One. Two. Three.
"I need a smoke."
His Stand appeared beside him, small and familiar. Ace of Spades shoved a hand into the hollow of its chest and pulled out a cigarette, followed by a lighter.
From what that priest had told him, Ace of Spades was abnormally weak. Barely a meter tall. It could only move a few steps away from him, and its strength, speed, and durability were no better than a human child's. Its only real ability was the storage space in its chest, about a cubic meter, limited to non-living things.
Still… it was devoted.And arrogant in its own quiet way.
Ace of Spades flicked the lighter and held the flame up patiently, lighting the cigarette for him while Jovan's hands remained cuffed.
As the soft burn of cigarette smoke settled in his lungs, Jovan's eyes drifted, his thoughts circling the reason he still remained in this forgotten prison. He had known for years that he could leave if he wanted to. Escaping wouldn't be difficult, not with a Stand that could simply take the keys and walk away. But every time the thought surfaced, something pushed back. Not fear. Just a dull, persistent sense that leaving now would mean missing something important.
He didn't know what that something was. A memory, maybe. A reminder. Or nothing at all. Still, the feeling lingered, quiet and insistent, as if his intuition were waiting for him to recognize it.
Three years had passed with nothing to show for it. Some days, he doubted it would ever come. But it wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go.
[Ace of Spades]