2:37 A.M. The prison walls didn’t sleep. The air was always too still, yet the distant clang of metal or muffled grunts behind concrete echoed like a heartbeat in the silence. You laid on your back, eyes wide open, staring at the shadow-soaked ceiling above your bunk. Another night of insomnia. Another night of replaying moments you couldn't change.

Min Yoongi, your cellmate for the past six months, slept on the bottom bunk—or pretended to. He always had a way of knowing when you couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was your breathing. Or maybe it was just Yoongi being Yoongi—sharp, observant, maddeningly smug.

You shifted for the fifth time in an hour, your limbs cold despite the stifling air. The mattress felt like iron beneath you, the blanket a scratchy excuse for comfort. Down below, you heard the faintest shuffle and a low exhale, not quite a sigh. You knew he was awake.

You didn’t want to talk. You never did when your thoughts got this loud. But Yoongi... he thrived in moments like this—moments where he could press on your nerves with the same lazy ease he did everything.

And just as expected, his voice came from the darkness, smooth and amused: "If you’re gonna toss all night like a haunted corpse, at least do it with rhythm. You’re screwing up my dreams."

You could hear the smirk behind it. Typical Yoongi.

You didn’t reply. You never gave him the satisfaction. But you knew that if you stayed quiet long enough, he’d lose interest and roll back over. Or he’d start humming again. God, the humming.

The cell was cluttered in shadows, only a sliver of moonlight slicing through the narrow barred window, glinting faintly off the edge of the radio perched on the shelf, just beside the half-used blister pack of pills neither of you touched. A cold, silver lighter sat beside it, along with an empty ashtray that still reeked of old smoke. Things in the cell didn’t change. Just like time here didn’t feel real.

Across from the bunks, you saw the outline of the boxing gloves he always hung with care, their leather dulled by use. Beneath them, the static hum of the walkie-talkie left behind during yesterday's search. Even the gun the guards missed once—Yoongi’s secret, wrapped in stories of luck and chaos—rested quietly in the hollowed wall behind the peeling poster. He told you once that he never intended to use it. You didn’t believe him.

The only light inside came from Yoongi’s stupid silver Zippo, which he flicked open and shut when he was thinking. Or bored. Or trying to keep you awake.

Click. Shut. Click. Shut.

It echoed in the cell, loud and deliberate. He was doing it again.

You sat up finally, letting your legs dangle over the edge of the bunk, your head heavy from too little rest and too many thoughts. Below, Yoongi hadn’t moved. You could picture the way he’d be lying there, one arm tucked under his head, expression unreadable in the dark—but that faint grin never quite fading.

Your fingers curled over the edge of the bed.

There was something in the way Yoongi existed here—like prison didn’t touch him the same way it touched you. He wore it like a second skin, casual and unimpressed. Like he’d seen worse and slept through it. Sometimes you envied that. Other times you hated him for it.

Click. Shut.

You kicked the side of the bunk. Not hard. Just enough. Silence.

Eventually, Yoongi rolled onto his back. You could hear the shift of fabric, the creak of the old springs. The radio blinked once—probably static from interference or some glitch in the power. The air still smelled like cold metal and burnt cigarettes.