The Prison Project

Chapter 42 – A Lesson

Margot’s POV

I hadn’t moved from the corner desk since he left. Not really.

Sure, I’d changed into the cleanest thing I could find—a crisp white tee and my grey sweats that hung loosely on my hips, the neck of it growing damp thanks to my half-dry hair dripping water down my back.

I hadn’t wanted to sit on his bed again—hadn’t dared—so I opted for the desk chair instead, legs folded up underneath me like a child waiting to be picked last in gym class.

Eventually, my eyes drifted over the array of books on the shelf above. A small, battered collection that seemed more decorative than personal. But still, there was one—a thick, weathered paperback with a cracked spine that caught my attention.

I stepped up to grab it...

I didn’t recognize the title, but something about it seemed almost... safe. Like it belonged to a different world, one where people worried about late library fees and chapter endings, not violent outbursts and being humiliated naked in front of someone who the day before had opted to protect you.

I was staring at the back of it, lost in the blurb, imagining myself slipping between the pages and disappearing into its story... when I heard the door click open again.

My spine stiffened instinctively.

I turned my head slowly—as if hoping it might be someone else, maybe Leo again.

It was obviously Coban.

He was back.

But no.

He entered without a word, his shoulders tight and purposeful, eyes scanning the room with that same unreadable energy he’d left with. There was no sweat this time—no shirtless intimidation. He was dressed again, but not relaxed. Never relaxed.

He saw me.

Cleared his throat.

I tensed under the sound like it was a warning shot.

“Laundry needs done,” was all he said.

No greeting. No apology. No mention of what happened earlier. Like the towel scene had been some fever dream I’d imagined. Maybe I wished I had?

I nodded carefully, choosing my breath before I spoke. “Ok, I put it all in the box over there,” I murmured, keeping my tone soft—measured like someone handling a wild toddler.

I stood slowly, not wanting to seem reluctant, moving across the room toward the box I had repurposed earlier. But before I could reach it, his arm shot out, stopping me with a firm hand to my hip.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

His voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t tender either. It was neutral—like a blade kept sheathed... for now.

“Just follow me,” he instructed, and I only nodded.

No questions. No resistance. Just follow him…

Was carrying the box for me his way of an apology? It was a pretty shit one if so!

He grabbed the box with one hand like it weighed nothing and moved toward the hallway, not even checking to see if I was behind him.

But of course I was.

My socked feet padded silently after him as we slipped out into the common area of our block—he didn’t exit the room completely, only crossed over to the other side, kicking open a door I hadn’t noticed before.

It was quieter than usual in the block.

Where was everyone?

What time was it?

Did something bad happen again?

I didn’t dare to ask Coban what had happened in Block C, I didn’t even want to know…

Coban led me inside the room, the positive scent of laundry detergent flooding my senses like a luxury spa retreat.

The laundry room wasn’t what I had expected. Did every cell block have one of these? I wondered.

It was a wide, industrial space with exposed pipes. Rows of four machines lined one wall, some ancient, some newer, and all of them working loudly.

Coban dropped the box beside one and turned to me, finally holding my gaze again.

“Separate it,” he said simply. “Lights, darks… you aren’t that dumb, are you?” He paused in his explanation to ask.

“I can do it, don’t worry,” I spoke gently, taking on a forced calming tone, before I dropped down to my knees and started sorting through it, grateful for the task, even if my hands were shaking from having him towering over me again.

It was pretty easy, since mostly everything was white, black, or grey.

For a while, there was only the sound of fabric shifting and machines turning. Then, I felt his presence settle down onto a chair in the corner behind me—not hovering, not looming, but still there.

Watching every move I made.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you earlier,” he said suddenly, voice barely audible over the rumble of the dryers as I paused.

I froze, a pair of socks still clutched in my hand, debating whether or not I had heard him right.

“I didn’t actually hit you,” he added, as if that somehow redeemed everything else he had done…

Grabbing my jaw, grabbing my hair, pushing me, exposing me…

I didn’t know how to respond to him and so I just kept folding instead, humming once at his words.

“I scare you, don’t I?” he said next. Not a question but a fact.

I finally looked up, twisting around slightly to glance over my shoulder at him.

He was leaning forward, elbows rested on either of his knees only a few feet away, jaw tight.

“Tell the truth. You were scared.” He pushed on, as I blinked, unsure of where this was going.

Don’t lie, remember the rules…

“Terrified,” I corrected, suddenly mortified that I had even said it, tensing in the event that I could set him off…

His brows drew in at my words, before he huffed out a breath of air. “Well I don’t mean to,” he muttered after a moment. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” I asked quietly, before I could stop myself, drawn in to his weak attempt at an apology.

His eyes flared—not with anger, but with something else.

Conflicted? Wounded, even? Nah…

“To keep you in line,” he said. “To keep you alive.”

Alive.

As if I weren’t already halfway dead in here with him.

“You… you made me feel like nothing,” I said, the words slipping out with a tremble. “You pulled the towel off of me like I was just some object you could humiliate. Like I wasn’t even a person.” I swallowed, unsure of where the words were flowing from.

Certainly not from my brain…

His stare dropped to the floor, almost shameful. “You needed to remember what this place is. That it’s not a game. Not a slumber party.”

“And do you need to be the monster for that?” I asked, softer now, blinking hard against the sting of tears.

He looked at me again.

“No,” he said finally.

Silence again.

But something shifted in it this time. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t cruelty.

It was… something else.

“I wanted to show you how easy it would be for one of those other guys to take your sanity… to take your purity… especially when I’m not around, like last night or this morning,” he explained, his tone hushed as he eyed the door for passersby, but nobody came.

I blinked at him. “I didn’t like it.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and admitted, as he nodded once.

“That was my point,” he stated, offering a dark glimpse into how his thoughts operated.

Neither of us said anything else…

Instead, he stood and reached for the clothes beside me—surprisingly helping me to load them into the machine.

A peace offering? Perhaps…