Papper Bullets

Paper Bullets2

Chapter 5: The World Don’t Wait

The bus hissed as it stopped in front of the halfway house.

A two-story brick building with barred windows and chipped paint, wedged between an auto shop and a liquor store.

Lee stepped off the bus.

One duffel bag. One fresh ID. A second chance.

But the world…

It didn’t feel like it had waited for him.

Inside the Halfway House

The man at the front desk didn’t look up when Lee entered.

“Name?”

“Lee Jordan.”

The clerk flipped through a folder. “Room 12B. Curfew’s 9. Job search starts tomorrow. Fail a piss test, and you’re back inside.”

Lee nodded.

There was no welcome. No handshake. No “glad you made it out.”

Just rules.

Room 12B

Two bunks.

One chipped desk.

A roommate named Ray — 60s, toothpick in his mouth, eyes like burned-out headlights.

“Don’t touch my radio,” Ray said, pointing at a dusty boombox.

Lee dropped his bag and sat on the lower bunk.

Outside, the city moved — cars honking, kids shouting, dogs barking.

It had been 18 years since he’d heard that kind of noise.

And it felt… wrong.

Phone Call

That night, Lee sat in the hallway with a prepaid flip phone in his hand.

He dialed the number Collins had given him.

Ring.

Ring.

“Hello?”

Her voice.

Softer than he remembered.

Older.

“Mom,” he said.

There was a pause.

“Lee?”

His throat tightened.

“It’s me. I’m out.”

Tears came before words.

They talked for 45 minutes — about her garden, his sister's new baby, the neighbor who still played jazz on Sundays.

She didn’t ask about prison.

He didn’t offer.

At the end, she said, “I still make your favorite. Mac and cheese. When you’re ready.”

Lee hung up, eyes wet, jaw clenched.

Next Morning: The Job Hunt

The halfway house had a board — flyers for construction jobs, dishwashing gigs, warehouse shifts.

Lee circled a few numbers, hit the pavement.

First stop: a moving company.

“You got a record?” the manager asked, not even glancing at the application.

Lee nodded. “Yeah.”

“Sorry. Insurance won’t cover it.”

Second stop: dishwashing at a diner.

The owner looked him over.

“You work hard?”

“Yeah.”

“You on dope?”

“No.”

“You steal?”

“No.”

“You’re hired. Start tomorrow. $9.50 an hour. Cash if you want.”

Lee shook his hand like it was gold.

That Night: A Knock at the Door

Room 12B. Midnight.

Lee was reading a tattered copy of The Art of War someone left behind.

A knock at the door.

Ray opened it.

Two guys stood in the hallway. Hoodies. Faces he didn’t recognize.

“You Lee?”

He stood slowly. “Yeah. Who's asking?”

“You made some friends inside, right?” the taller one said, smirking. “Guys who didn’t walk out?”

Lee didn’t answer.

The shorter one spoke. “They say you got people moved. Sent to max. They lost everything.”

Lee stayed still.

“Message is: stay quiet. Stay small. Or someone finishes what started in that med hallway.”

Ray shut the door without a word.

Lee sat back on the bunk.

He didn’t sleep.

Waking Up Different

He was on the job by 6AM.

Scrubbing dishes. Grease under his nails. Plates slamming. Waitresses yelling.

It was hell.

But it was freedom.

He stacked every dollar. Ate cheap. Talked less. Watched the streets.

But temptation came knocking again — not with violence, but with opportunity.

An Old Friend

Three weeks in, Lee walked past a barbershop.

“Yo!” a voice called. “Is that LJ?”

Lee turned.

It was Tyrell — a guy he ran with before everything fell apart. Slick smile. Fresh clothes. Chain around his neck.

“You out?” Tyrell clapped him up. “Man, I heard. They said you folded. But you here, bro. Lookin’ solid.”

Lee kept his face blank. “I’m working.”

Tyrell grinned. “That’s good. That’s good. But look — I got something real for you. No beef. Just cash.”

Lee didn’t bite.

“Don’t you want more than dish soap and curfews, bro?”

Lee paused.

For one moment, that old part of him itched — the part that liked fast money and felt invincible.

Then he looked Tyrell dead in the eye.

“I had a funeral for that version of me, T.”

Tyrell stared. Then laughed. “Man... alright. Respect. Hit me if you change your mind.”

He walked off.

Lee walked the other way.

Ray Speaks

That night, Lee came in from work and found Ray waiting.

“You didn’t take that offer.”

Lee shrugged. “Not my life anymore.”

Ray nodded. “Most don’t make it past the first week out. They either go back in… or go under.”

“You make it?”

Ray smiled. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

For the first time, Ray reached over and turned on the boombox.

Old blues hummed from the speakers.

“Sit,” Ray said. “You like B.B. King?”

Lee sat down. “Don’t know. Let’s find out.”

Final Scene: The Letter

A week later, Lee got a letter in the mail.

No return address. Just two words written inside:

“We’re watching.”

He burned the letter in a tin coffee can behind the house.

Then he went inside, took a shower, and made himself a grilled cheese.

Because that’s what staying clean looked like.

Small victories.

One burned threat at a time.

Voices from the Yard

He started watching prison content on t****k late at night. Former inmates going live, sharing their stories. Some of it was real. Some? Straight capping.

But then there was one voice — Fabio, a man who had done 18 years like Lee.

Same charge. Same regrets. Same code.

Lee watched him speak to strangers like a man with nothing left to lose and everything left to give.

"Ain't nobody dropping soap no more. It’s 2025. Pride don’t allow it. Ain’t no fear like people used to think. It’s more mental now. More dangerous. And way more lonely."

Lee tapped the heart icon without even thinking.

Double tap.

A Letter from the Inside

One morning, Lee got a piece of mail. No return address, again. But this one didn’t smell of threat — it smelled like pain.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. Sloppy handwriting.

“They moved me to Supermax because of the mail game. They thought I was getting packages. Said I was trying to bring in weight.

But it wasn’t me. Someone put my name on it.

You remember Cory from H-block? He ain’t make it.

He got caught up in it. They set him up. It’s still happening. Watch your back.

And if you talk — they’ll shut you down too.

Respectfully,

— D.”

Lee stared at the letter, heart pounding.

The same setup that got guys transferred in the joint — false contraband, fake names, snitch paper — it was now reaching outside.

The game never ended. It just moved.

Dinner and Distance

Lee’s girlfriend, Tasha, made him dinner that night. Chicken, rice, broccoli.

He picked at it, then mashed it together with his fork. Muscle memory.

“You still mixin’ your food like it’s chow time?” she asked, laughing a little.

Lee shrugged. “Yeah… I guess I do.”

She softened. “I don’t mind. Just… it’s okay to not be in survival mode anymore.”

But she didn’t understand.

Even out here — the walls were still around him. In his habits. His reflexes. His silence.

A Kid Named Malik

Lee had started volunteering with a local youth program once a week. Just an hour here and there. Tasha said it was good for him. The parole officer agreed.

That’s where he met Malik — 14, already skipping school, flashing a grill, carrying himself like a grown man.

“You really did time?” Malik asked one day.

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

“Don’t matter,” Lee said. “I lost half my life because I couldn’t control my pride. That’s all you need to know.”

Malik smirked. “You soft now or somethin’?”

Lee stepped closer. “Nah. I’m smart now.”

The boy looked away, but Lee knew he heard it.

Temptation Again

Three days later, Lee got a visit.

Tyrell.

Same chain. Same grin. This time with a new pitch.

“I got a little move for you,” Tyrell said. “Not even big. Just some mail stuff. You don’t touch nothin’. Just sign for it.”

Lee shook his head. “I’m out.”

Tyrell smiled like a snake. “Thought you’d say that. But I also thought you should know — someone already used your name last week. In a drop.”

Lee’s stomach turned.

“You serious?”

“Dead. They doin’ that mail game heavy now. Setups. Retaliation. Just like inside. But out here — it’s worse. They got no walls.”

Lee didn’t respond.

Tyrell leaned in. “You better figure out who put that name out there. Or you gonna catch a charge you never earned.”

Back to the Platform

That night, Lee went live for the first time.

His hands shook a little as he adjusted the camera.

“Yo. I’m Lee. Some of y’all know me as LJ. I did 18 for somethin’ stupid when I was 16. And I ain’t glorifying nothin’. I’m here to tell the truth. Not the TV version. Not the rap lyrics. Not the fake ‘scared straight’ stuff.”

The chat lit up.

🟣 “Preach.”

🟢 “Where you from, OG?”

🟡 “Respect for speaking.”

Lee took a deep breath.

“I’m here for the kids. The ones who think this game is sweet. And for the families of people still locked up. You want to know what real looks like? It looks like PTSD. It looks like mixing your food like a damn animal because you forgot how to eat normal. It looks like sleepin’ with your shoes on for years, ‘cause you never knew when s— was gonna pop off.”

He wiped his face.

Didn’t cry. But it felt close.

“Somebody’s using my name right now in a mail game setup. Same kind of s— that got people hurt inside. If I go down again, it won’t be for something I did. But for something they played.”

The chat was silent for a moment.

Then the comments exploded.

💥 “Real one.”

💥 “We hear you, bro.”

💥 “This needs to go viral.”

Final Scene: A Decision

The next day, Lee turned down an offer from a guy who wanted to pay him for a “prison-style content series.” Said it would go viral. Said Lee could make big money.

Lee said no.

He wasn’t in it for likes. Or pity.

He was in it for redemption.

He called his PO and told him about the name being used. Showed him the letter. The live. The screenshots.

“I’m not going back,” Lee said. “I’ll fight it with whatever I got left.”

The PO nodded. “I believe you. Just keep doing what you’re doing. But watch your six.”

Lee smiled.

“I always do.”