The Wicked Prince
1692 Words
The Mojave Desert lies in southern California, a vast stretch of yellow sand born from the coastal ranges that block the moist western winds. Even in 2020, despite all the marvels of modern technology, this wasteland remains barren and sparsely inhabited.
Of course, “sparsely” doesn’t mean “empty.”
Beyond the fact that it connects to Nevada’s desert—home to the rumored Area 51—the Mojave has its own human presence.
Here stands a federal prison widely known across the country: Mojavina Penitentiary.
A very particular prison.
A prison famous for one thing—
its inmates are all beautiful women.
Mojavina has existed for only five years, but the legislation that created it is still frequently mentioned and endlessly mocked in conversation.
Bill pg17171, better known by its public nickname, the Bambus Act, named after the senator who submitted it. The Act was passed after a string of s*x scandals in women’s prisons in 2015, all involving attractive female inmates. Despite official attempts to bury the scandals, the Act became a lasting national joke.
The core idea was simple:
Any female prisoner with a “beauty index” above six must be sent to Mojavina for centralized confinement.
A review committee was even formed to rate women by appearance, reportedly using a scientific formula created by research institutions. Naturally, the Bambus Act earned a much juicier nickname—
“The Beautiful Inmates Act.”
Every year, transfer requests to Mojavina pile up like snowdrifts. Not only from imprisoned women—
even women not serving sentences applied, and, astonishingly, so did quite a few men. The numbers increased every year.
These bizarre applications became a goldmine for tabloids. Newspapers showered Mojavina with donations in exchange for leaked documents, making its staff the most handsomely under-the-table compensated in the entire federal system.
Night. Mojavina Penitentiary.
Kayleen Sheer, the thirty-six-year-old warden, remained in her office long after sunset. Three personnel files lay open before her, and she hesitated over each one.
Last week, the deputy warden, Max, had died suddenly of a heart attack. A replacement had to be chosen immediately. And she was the one responsible for choosing.
Mojavina’s management structure differed from ordinary prisons:
One female warden.
Two deputy wardens—one male, one female.
And the male deputy warden must be over fifty-five.
The meaning behind the rule was obvious:
to reduce the likelihood of sexually charged scandals. A man nearing sixty, even in good shape, wasn’t likely to be driven by problematic impulses—especially if he already suffered from age-related decline.
The twenty male guards under him posed similar risks, but since they were only permitted to patrol the perimeter and were forbidden to enter living quarters without permission, their risk was actually lower than their aging superior’s.
As for why a women’s prison needed male staff at all—security, mostly. The desert was too isolated, and outside threats were a concern.
And second?
Because if you confined only women together long enough… the psychological distortions could become worse than the men’s.
This applied not only to inmates, but to the female guards as well.
To address s****l-impulse-related risks, Kayleen had long ago implemented a practical solution:
whenever possible, transfer husband-and-wife guards together; and if they were single, encourage them to pair up internally.
If pairing failed?
A single woman might stay.
A single man would almost always be sent back.
It was her unshakeable rule—and one of the reasons Mojavina ran so smoothly.
But now, with Deputy Warden Max gone, she faced a serious problem:
His successor mattered—a lot.
The three candidates before her all looked suitable on paper. Good résumés, solid backgrounds.
But placing a man—any man—into a prison filled exclusively with beautiful women required more than looking at credentials. It required caution.
In the end, Kayleen decided to evaluate them based on one crucial, practical factor:
sexual danger level.
She needed a deputy warden who was safe, not a walking disaster.
Candidate One: File 3577268 — Carl, age 56.
Bearded, wrinkled, clearly aging. But Kayleen frowned at the lack of gray hair, the firm musculature beneath his uniform, and his well-maintained physique—173 cm and only 70 kilos.
Not overweight, not frail.
His latest photo showed strong chest and abdominal muscles, visible even under his shirt.
A man like this?
Absolutely not a low-risk candidate.
Kayleen immediately eliminated him.
Candidate Two: File 3645733 — Barry, age 57.
Short, overweight, balding—a picture-perfect “safe” older man.
But his eyes…
Bright. Too bright.
Another photo showed him completely bald, his fierce stare giving him a borderline menacing aura.
Kayleen’s instincts prickled.
Men who looked fierce rarely suffered early decline.
If anything, they burned hotter.
She set Barry aside as well.
Candidate Three: File 3995559 — Mervyn Ronan, age 58.
The oldest of the three.
His photo portrayed a disheveled man with mostly white hair, a few lifeless black strands mixed in. Half-moon reading glasses perched on his nose; his gray irises looked cloudy and unfocused.
Tall, but frail—181 cm and only 68 kilos.
He looked worn out.
Soft.
Almost harmless.
And though his face bore deep lines, his skin still held surprising smoothness. Hard to judge his actual condition.
Still, compared to the other two, Mervyn’s blurred gaze and bony frame made Kayleen feel far more assured.
Combine that with being the oldest—
Decision made.
Mervyn Ronan would become Mojavina’s second male deputy warden.
Kayleen felt a surge of satisfaction. She believed she had chosen wisely.
But… had she?
To answer that, you’d have to ask the “Mervyn Ronan” currently hundreds of miles away.
And the quotation marks were necessary—
because the real Mervyn Ronan could no longer speak.
He was on his way to a Los Angeles cemetery, lying in a coffin.
Otherwise, he too might wonder why he was somehow walking the earth again.
The truth was simple: Mervyn Ronan had not been murdered.
The impostor wasn’t a killer by nature.
He took the identity purely on a whim.
When the real Mervyn died in a sudden rain-soaked car accident, the impostor happened to pass by and heard the old man’s final words—
His greatest wish was to one day die peacefully in Mojavina, seated in the deputy warden’s chair.
A touching last request…
And one fate denied him.
Moved by a strange sense of mischief—and backed by the resources to carry it out—the impostor arranged the old man’s funeral, altered his appearance, buried him properly…
And then walked away with Mervyn Ronan’s face, heading straight for Mojavina.
After all, what man wasn’t curious about a prison full of beautiful women?
And for the impostor—whose lifelong obsession was beauty—
the “Beautiful Inmates Act” was like a legend begging to be tested.
To him, those highly-rated inmates were less women and more—
gilded, dangerous songbirds.
He intended to examine each cage with great enthusiasm.
Japan. Outskirts of Tokyo. A secluded traditional estate.
A young woman in a white kimono stood beneath the wooden eaves, eyes closed, long hair cascading down her back. She looked as though she were listening to whispers from the stars.
Tall, elegant, breathtaking—a serene, timeless beauty. The simple white kimono made her seem like a painting come to life.
Except for one thing.
In her right hand hung a long katana.
Though her grip did not move, the blade hummed softly, rippling the air with faint waves of light.
The contrast between her stillness and the blade’s restless energy was striking.
It didn’t last.
Footsteps approached; the moment shattered.
The woman’s brows lifted, and she sheathed the sword before turning, voice cool and steady:
“What is it?”
The visitor—a middle-aged woman dressed like a house steward—bowed and presented a tray covered with black cloth.
“Miss, Meitao has returned. But she locked herself in her room and refuses to come out. It seems… she failed her mission. This is what she brought back for you.”
The young woman lifted the cloth with a single motion.
On the tray lay a folded white bedsheet—only “white” was no longer accurate.
It was stained all over.
Spots of dried red shaped like plum blossoms.
Large, pale-yellow smears.
Dirt. Sweat. Everything.
Though two days old, the sheet still carried a faint musky scent. The woman recognized it instantly—she’d smelled it almost daily not long ago.
Her expression darkened in a way the steward had rarely seen.
Her mistress was usually calm, elegant, almost emotionless.
Yet this simple bedsheet had drawn a flash of cold fury.
But just as quickly…
it vanished.
Her face softened.
A smile—small, unreadable, almost sweet—touched her lips.
The steward stared, confused.
“Miss… are you all right?”
The young woman ignored the question.
“Did Meitao bring back anything else?”
“No, nothing else.”
The steward shook her head.
“What about a ring? A soft yellow one?”
“A ring? No. When she returned, she wore nothing except her ninja garb. Even her underthings were gone. I’m afraid the man… took her maidenhood.”
“Tch. That bastard. Obsessed with stealing women’s underwear.”
The young woman muttered the insult under her breath.
The steward didn’t hear the words—but she did notice the sudden, oddly pleased look in her mistress’s eyes afterward.
Sweet.
Content.
What on earth…?
“Starting today,” the woman said calmly, “give Meitao the status and treatment of a guest elder. Tell her that being taken by that man is an honor. She is no longer a servant of the Ando household.
Send her to me. I’ll ease her fears.”
“Yes, miss.”
Though full of questions, the steward bowed and backed away.
Only one thought swirled endlessly in her mind:
A mere loss of innocence…
and the girl rises from a slave to someone exalted.
Like a crow transforming into a phoenix.
- Writer
