THE Central Jail, India.

The country's biggest jail complex was not a place for correction. It was a graveyard for the living-a place where men weren't sent to reform but to rot. The government could decorate it with policies, paint it with false promises of rehabilitation, but the truth? This was a slaughterhouse.

A place where justice was just another corpse buried under bureaucracy.

The inside of the prison was not just mixed with sweat and blood, but with something worse. Hopelessness. And prisoners can feel that clung to there skin, into there bones. The walls, once white, had been stained with history-layers of filth, dried blood, and the silent screams of the forgotten.

Guards didn't maintain order-they ruled. Their boots always making noises through the corridors, a reminder that power belonged to those with keys and batons.

They weren't lawmen. They were hunters. And the prisoners? Cattle.

Justice? It didn't exist here. Hierarchy did.

There were the rich criminals, the ones who still had connections outside-money kept them safe. There were the political prisoners, untouched in their separate blocks. Then came the killers, the r*pists, the smugglers-the true criminals. And finally, at the very bottom, the scapegoats-men who had no money, no voice, no one to fight for them.

He was one of them.

He didn't remember what freedom felt like. He didn't remember what the world outside even looked like. He didn't remember what it meant to be human.

They had forced him down to his knees countless times. They had beaten the fight out of him. They had made him believe that he was nothing but a stray dog-a nameless thing meant to be kicked, chained, and discarded.

Was he brainwashed? No. But he had been made brain-dead.

The first time they threw him behind bars, he was 14 years old. The police had beaten him until he couldn't stand. Forced to sign a confession he couldn't even read. They didn't even bother proving his age. A nameless orphan was easier to bury. And that's exactly what they did. For six years, the world outside moved forward, but for him, time had stopped.

Six years. Nine months. Seventeen days.

He was in captivation. A captive.

Every morning, he woke up to screaming. Loud screams. Sometimes it was torture. Sometimes it was a man being almost killed in a corner. Sometimes it was humiliation. Sometimes it was just the sound of a mind breaking apart or Prisoner wanting to die.

But he never screamed. Not anymore. People scream when they feel pain. He was numb towards pain. Pain was converted into rage for him.

He had learned the rules early. Never show weakness. Never let them see you break.

He had no name, no past, no future-just the number they stamped on his uniform. A number branded into his chest, a constant reminder that he wasn't a citizen anymore. He was property- something the government owned.

They took his rights. They took his childhood. They took his freedom. They took his hand. And one day, they would take his life too.

Among the thousands of prisoners locked in filth and despair, there was a place worse than the rest. A cell for isolation, just below the rank of solidarity confinement.

Separate Confinement. He was kept there.

A four-walled coffin designed to break men without touching them. Here the sunlight was a luxury-given in just enough amounts to keep the body alive but the spirit dead. The air was rationed like a privilege. The rain? Only its sound was allowed. Water that fell from the sky never touched his skin since six years.

No visitors. No hope. No dreams. No wants. No needs. Inside that four-walled hell, his only companions were the rats and books.

He was Central Jail's most unique prisoner. He was different then others. They called him by many names. Steel. Machine. Cripple. Left-handed. Ambidextrous. Occasionally, a manic genius.

They never called him by his name. Because to them, he had none.

The man. The machine. The survivor. The threat. The maniac. The criminal. The prisoner.

It's him.

He is Prisoner no 704.

"The Deputy Superintendent ordered Convict 704 to be brought from High-Security Cell Block to the execution room." The jail warder's low voice is coming close to the corridor.

"I am already in a f-cking sh-t mood. Is this for his tortúre session?" Another one scoffed. "Think the Superintendent again allowed us to beat him today?"

There was no concept of morning in this place. The walls did not allow the sun to exist inside my cell. The only light came in was from a single flickering bulb outside my iron bars and its dim glow barely reach the damp corners of my cell.

I sat on the cold floor and my back resting against the wall, my legs stretched out in front of me and I glanced down at my hands.

My hand- my hand is very different from any other prisoner here.

My left is human. My right is not.

I am machine from my right. The prosthetic wrist gleamed under the dim yellow light and I fixed the prosthetic fingers.

No sensation. No warmth. Just hollow movement.

My right wrist ended in cheap plastic based metal, a prosthetic that was more of an obligation than a necessity. A reminder. A punishment. A joke played with me.

The laughter of the warders are getting more close towards my cell and heavy boot shoes stomping one by one. Then clanking of keys. Then scrape of iron. Then finally bars screeched open.

Two guards stepped inside. Their uniforms were proper, their shoes polished, but their eyes- lifeless so does mine. This was routine for them and so does mine.

"Get up, a/sshole. 704."

My name had been reduced to a number long ago. I didn't move. Didn't acknowledge them. One of them clicked his tongue. "Still acting tough?"

I didn't fight back when they grabbed me by full force and slammed me harshly against the rough cement wall. The cold metal bite into my skin when they forced the rusted handcuffs around my wrists, and tightened them until the metal dug deep. It was enough to leave a round mark on my left good human hand. Then they tied the heavy waist chain belt, chaining my movements further.

"You pull any stunt, you die. Understood?" One of them yanked the chain, forcing me forward.

When they were done caging me they led me down the dark corridor, past rows of other cells. Prisoners glanced at me but quickly looked away. No one pitied me. No one dared. No one even taking second look at me. Everyone fear there life, it's valid.

It's too valid when I am in between political and government mess.

We reached the block where no cameras existed. The 'punishment room.' Not officially registered. The jail manual had no mention of it but every prisoner knew.

Here, the rules of the law did not apply.

There were four places where illegal tortúre happened- the punishment room, the execution room, the interrogation room, or my separate confinement cell. Today, it seemed they had chosen the execution room.

The door slammed open.

A single buzzing bulb in the center of the room. A shining metal table was beneath it. A few feet away, a steel tray lay on another table. The tools were neatly arranged-batons, belts, a rubber pipe.

I had been here before. I knew what came next.

The door slammed shut behind me and they locked it. The Superintendent stood in front of the table, his expression unreadable, eyes fixed on me like I was nothing more than a worn-out object.

The guards forced me forward, shoving me against the cold metal table. My cuffed wrists dug into the edge as one of them grabbed the back of my neck, pressing my face against the surface.

"How many times do we have to do this until you f-c-king give us an expression, 704?" One of them chuckled, his breath hot against my ear.

I didn't answer.

A leàther bélt cracked through the air before searing pàin exploded across my back. My body tensed, but I remained silent. Another striké. Another. The leàther touch my skin, each stríck sharper than the last. I knew my shirt would soon be tórn.

"Still playing tough m-therf-cker?"

A rubber pipe slàmmed into the back of my knees, forcing me to drop. My legs were buckled up and the guards yànked me up again, making sure that I wouldn't fall before they were done.

One of them- the superintendent stepped in front of me and his fingers cúrled into my hair, forcing my head back. He finally spoke, his voice has no emotion.

"Open his shirt."

The guards followed his order without hesitation. The fabric was rippéd off and thrówn away like trash. My skin, already filled with old brúisés and scàrs, was expösed to the cold air now.

The next striké was different. The bâton. Heavy. Unforgiving. It lànded against my chést, forcing the air from my lúngs. My body jérked, but they held me in place.

A second hit.

A third.

Pàin scréam-ed through the skin of my body which is sharp and consuming. I can feel my breath started to become uneven, but I refused to make a sound. The more sound, the more they enjoy.

One of the guard leaned in, "You know, sometimes I wonder how the hell you're still alive." his voice filled with mockery.

Then a hàrd fist landed on my jàw, snàpping my head to the side and the taste of my own bloód spread all over my tóngue. "You want to make this easier on yourself huh?" Another hàrd bløw- this time to my stømach. The impact forced my body to fold back but the chàins held me in the position.

"Enough." The Superintendent exhaled slowly while moving closer. He crouched slightly, tilting his head and studying me properly.

"Do you even feel anything anymore? Or is it just like your Steel hand which feels nothing." His voice was almost curious.

I lift my head up slightly with my bløodied lip which formed a faint smile.

His eyes went dark after seeing my smile and the back of his hand slapped my face, snàpping my head to the side. "Thrów him back in his cell." His voice was sharp and Irritated.

The guards didn't hesitate.

Telling them to be respectful is pointless. To them, I am a criminal. A mass murderer. A demon.

Prisoner 704 removed the biggest local Bank of Delhi into ashes by a bomb attack.

They don't know I was just fourteen when I was thrown into this prison with a bomb attack false charges. Because, on paper, I was eighteen.

Some officials changed my records. The police never questioned it. The court never verified it. I never got to speak. I was make to keep my mouth close by force.

Just a fake document, and suddenly, I wasn't a child anymore. I was a full-grown criminal.

Prisoner 704. A name that made headlines. A name cursed by families who lost their loved ones in the bank bombing. They painted me as a real culprit of the biggest Delhi bomb attack. But they don't know one thing-

I was a criminal with no crime.

Six years. I have been locked inside this cell for six years. The moment I entered, they threw me into the adult block. My uniform wasn't white like an undertrial's. It was grey, marked and branded with prison number.

No one questioned why a kid was locked up with men twice my age. Because I was too tall for a fourteen year old boy so I was forced to become an adult. Laughable right?. No one cared that my wrists had bruises from the iron shackles that were too heavy for me. No one said a thing.

I wasn't a one hand man. I had two human hands before but they took it from me. They removed my right from my wrist.

The real criminals-the ones who bombed the bank-were out there, living their lives. The ones who ran that orphanage-who trained children to pickpocket, steal, and beg-walked free. The orphanage I was in, the leader caused it and the blame was put on my shoulder.

Because a corrupt system needed someone to blame. Because I had no father, no mother, no one to fight for me. Because, in this country, the easiest people to throw away are the ones who don't exist. It's better to close the case as quickly and quietly as possible.

⛓️
The classroom inside jail was nothing like what people said like in the outside world. It wasn't a place filled with young students, eager to learn,who are dressed in uniforms or their bags stacked against the wall. No, this was a dimly little, overcrowded room inside the education block of the jail. The white paint on the walls had turned yellow with age and cracks are all across the ceiling.

Long wooden benches which are worn out with years of use were arranged in rows. Most of them were occupied by inmates- some genuinely interested in learning, others just passing time to escape their daily prison routine. Few were here for the sole reason that it gave them a break from prison labor.

I sat at my usual spot in the back, away from the cluster of men who chatted in low voices.

"Missed me, 704? I missed you so much that my heart was screaming your name- last night though," a voice rang out beside me, breaking my focus. I don't have to look to direction of the voice to know who this is.

Chirag Chauhan. Prisoner 601.

He slid onto the bench next to me with his usual smirk. His prison Uniform is different then mine- light brown khaki jumpsuit. No handcuff marks on his wrist.

He was one of the very few inmates who had a certain level of freedom here— Too much freedom. Not that he was innocent-far from it. His father was the DGP of Police, which automatically made him a VIP prisoner. He had privileges others didn't. He got extra food. He got to keep extra books. His punishments were lighter, if they even existed.

"Insolent" I muttered, keeping my gaze on the front of the class.

"Why not? We're always together, aren't we? What's so insolent about our relationship, my bestfriend."

I ignored him.

The classroom door creaked open, and the prison education officer walked in, flanked by two other staff members. Their expressions were as dull, "Listen up," the officer said, clapping his hands once. "We have an important announcement."

The murmuring stopped, and all eyes turned toward him. Some prisoners leaned forward, while others, like me, stayed still, indifferent to whatever news was coming.

"The most prestigious law university has partnered with the prison education system for a research project," the officer continued. "National Law University, Delhi, will be conducting a study on prison education and rehabilitation programs."

There was a collective shift in the room. A few inmates exchanged glances. Law students. That meant outsiders coming in. People who didn't belong to this world.

"The project will involve interviews, classroom observations, and discussions with inmates who are part of the education system here," the officer went on. "They'll be gathering information on how prison education affects rehabilitation and reintegration into society."

Chirag let out a low whistle beside me. "Best friend, looks like we're getting visitors."

I didn't react.

"Selection for the interview process will be based on your academic record and participation in prison education," the officer said, flipping through a register. "A list will be put up later."

There were a few murmurs, but most prisoners knew what this meant. Only those who were considered "model students" would be chosen.

I already knew my name would be there.

Not because I cared about this education system or law and lawyers. But because it was my only escape inside this prison. The only way I could distract myself from everything I had lost.

a few hours later...

The interrogation room. I stood at attention, my back straight, eyes lowered. Across the long wooden table sat men in uniforms of honour, their badges glinting under the tube light.

The Prison Advisory Board. The highest authority within these walls. They decided who lived comfortably and who suffered. Today, they were here for me.

A folder lay open on the table, filled with documents stamped and signed. Prisoner 704 was printed in bold letters on the first page.

The man in the center, Director-General of Prisons (Chirag's father), cleared his throat. "It has been decided that 704 will participate in the research project conducted by National Law University. However-" He paused, tapping his fingers on the table. "Considering his past and... circumstances, certain measures need to be taken."

A lower-ranking officer stepped forward, placing something in front of me. A neatly folded pair of black leather gloves.

I didn't move.

"You are to wear these at all times during interactions with external visitors," the Director-General continued. "This is not a request and you know it better."

Silence stretched. I lifted my gaze slightly, watching them through my lashes. The gloves sat there, untouched.

Another officer, Superintendent Sharma, leaned forward, his voice carrying an edge of amusement. "You should be grateful, 704. Six years inside, and someone is finally coming to see you. We can't have you making a bad first impression, can we?"

A few of them chuckled.

I reached out, picking up the gloves. The leather was smooth, cool against my fingers.

"You have a visitor, criminal 704. Someone is visiting you for the first time in your half-life in jail" he laughs.. The head officer proceeded further. "You f-c-ker, how are you feeling? Hm, a f-c-king human will visit a disabled f-c-king criminal like you?"

"Respect, officer. Learn to be respectful; you should not use such words towards..." I got up from my seat and stood in front of him, my head tilted downward to look at him as I warned him "...my dearest respected visitor."

To my visitor, I know I don't know you, or maybe we don't know each other, but I hope our meeting will be memorable because I am eager to meet you.