Prisonland

The door creaked open as Wang stepped inside the apartment, every muscle in his body aching like he'd been hit by a freight train—which, in a way, he had. His jaw was still sore, his ribs throbbed with every breath, and he had a bruise on his ego the size of Western Australia.

The stench of cigarette smoke hit him first. That and the familiar smell of cheap beer, sweat, and whatever the hell was rotting in the kitchen sink.

Cass was sprawled across the ripped-up couch in nothing but black cotton underwear and a loose white tank top—no bra, of course, because why the fuck would she bother? Her long legs were kicked up on the armrest, her skin tanned and dappled with faint scars and bruises, proof of a life lived in the crosshairs. Her blonde hair was a wild, unbrushed mess. The fabric of her tank hugged her huge melons just loosely enough to leave little to the imagination, the outline of her nipples faint beneath the thin cotton. A half-burned cigarette hung from her lips as she lazily tilted her head back over the couch cushion and exhaled toward the ceiling.

She didn't even turn around.

"Well?" she drawled, voice gravelly from smoke and exhaustion. "How'd the big day go, tough guy?"

Wang let out a groan as he dropped his bag by the door, cybernetic hand clinking slightly against the frame. "You can see it on my face, can't you?"

Cass turned her head enough to glance at him sideways. One of her eyebrows cocked. "Damn right I can. You look like Rocky used your skull to mop the floor."

She took one last drag and stubbed the cigarette into the already-overflowing ashtray on the table beside her. "Let me guess… you thought you'd go in and Matrix his ass with your fancy robot arm?"

"Something like that," Wang muttered.

She let out a low whistle and sat up a little, stretching. "Told ya. Rocky's built different. Used to fight in the pit back when they still had rules. Broke a guy's femur with one fuckin' punch."

"Jesus."

"Nah," she said, smirking. "Jesus taps out in the first round."

Wang grumbled and rubbed his jaw. "Shit hurts."

"Good. Pain builds character." She waved him off. "Anyway, go hit the shower. You stink like blood and gym socks. I already used it, so the water's not too brown."

He headed toward the bathroom, limping slightly, peeling off his sweat-drenched shirt along the way. "Thanks for the luxury."

Cass hollered after him, her voice echoing down the hall, "Oh, and heads up—there's only cold water. You'll get used to it."

Wang pushed open the bathroom door and immediately wrinkled his nose. The place was a disaster zone—towels scattered on the floor, grime caked on the edges of the tub, a cracked mirror smeared with fingerprints and someone's old mascara. A pair of Cass's panties hung off the shower rod like a flag of surrender. The tiles were yellowed, some chipped or missing, and the toilet had a stain in it that looked like it predated civilization.

Still, it was the closest thing to civilization he'd seen all day.

He twisted the ancient tap. The pipes groaned like they were screaming in protest.

Then came the water—blasting out in a stuttering stream of ice-cold punishment. Wang yelped instinctively and backed up.

"FUCK—!"

Cass let out a barking laugh from the living room. "Told ya!"

"Jesus Christ!" Wang snapped, stepping back into the spray with gritted teeth. "You take showers in this shit every day?!"

"It's character building!" she shouted. "And it keeps your nipples hard, so win-win!"

Wang muttered a stream of curses under his breath and scrubbed at his skin, shivering. He could feel the sweat, blood, and grime peeling off him in layers, carried away by freezing, rust-tinted water.

The cybernetic arm wasn't bothered by the cold, of course. Bastard thing didn't even flinch.

By the time he finished, he was half-numb and fully awake.

He grabbed one of the slightly-less-filthy towels from the pile on the ground, wiped his face, and stared at himself in the cracked mirror. A bruise was forming along his jaw, purplish and ugly. His hair was a mess, eyes bloodshot, and he had that half-dead look of a guy caught between being hunted and trying to pretend he was still in control.

But beneath all that?

There was something else.

Fire. Grit. A stupid, stubborn refusal to quit.

He pulled his shirt back on and stepped out into the hallway, steam still clinging to his skin.

Cass was still sprawled on the couch, another cigarette in hand, eyes half-lidded.

"How's the ice bath?" she asked without looking.

"I think my balls have frostbite."

"Don't worry," she muttered, smoke curling from her lips. "They'll toughen up. Everything else does out here."

Wang slumped into the old recliner and let his body sink.

"This place sucks," he said.

Cass nodded. "Yep."

He looked at her, expression tired but genuine.

"But thanks. For, you know… not letting me die."

Cass shrugged. "Don't get used to it."

A quiet beat passed. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. A distant explosion rumbled in the air—maybe a gang fight, maybe a collapsed building. Normal background noise.

Wang sighed and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow was another day. Another bruise. Another chance.

But tonight?

Tonight he just sat in silence, listening to the sound of Cass's steady smoking and the groan of the dying ceiling fan.

And that was enough.

Q: Do you take cold showers?