Author's Note: As you can probably see, I'm going back and forth with the chapters on following Steve's and Michaela/Darren's lives. I'm not sure if this format will stick, but it's working pretty well so far, so here's Steve. :D

And thanks to my Beta, StayBeautiful1, who helped make this chapter possible. :D

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Steve paced back and forth in his jail cell angrily, pissed beyond belief that he didn't know how to get out of this hellhole. Well… Technically, he did know how to get out of this hellhole, but his chances were almost completely ruined when he accidentally murdered his cellmate. He hadn't meant to kill him, really; but when he began pulling apart the bars of his jail cell, his 'roomie' had tried to stop him. He was in vampaneze mode at the moment; there was no way he could've restrained his strength enough to only severely injure him. Steve had thrown him backwards, and he was dead the moment his head hit the wall. That was when they relocated Steve to a solitary cell with bars that he couldn't move if he tried.

Convicted for the serial killings of over twenty women in the past two months… You're a monster, Leonard.

A small smirk played on said monster's lips as he played with a rubber band that he always wore on his wrist. In the beginning, he'd felt bad about ending all of the women's lives. What if they'd had families? Careers? But now that they'd landed him in jail, he felt nothing but pissed. Those bitches deserved what they got; he just didn't know it until now. He knew it was an odd thing to feel, and maybe he should feel guilty, but he didn't in the least. He continued playing with his rubber band— he knew that was probably off, too, but he'd been in the habit of carrying one with him since second grade. After some major pleading and whining, his captors had allowed him to keep one rubber band with him when he was alone. They took it away when he was around people.

A rubber band, huh? What's that for? I mean, serial killers who spend their time in solitude don't typically ask to have a rubber band with them. After all, the worst you can do with it is maybe strangle yourself… which you're welcome to do at any time.

Yeah, the eighteen-year-old didn't exactly get the best treatment here in his cell. Since the death of his cellmate when he'd received his rubber band, which served part-time as a stress ball, he'd been by his lonesome. The only times he was in any sort of company whatsoever was when he was being interrogated.

Tell me, Leonard. What the hell were you thinking?

His trial was coming up on Monday, and he had every intention of getting out before then. He was currently working on forming a plan, and he had every intention of acting it out— whatever it was. He was sick of hearing his mother's sob stories on the television about how she 'tried to raise him well'— it was a load of bullshit. Being drunk off your ass and sleeping with random strangers wasn't exactly the best way to raise a kid.

Seems like you've gotten off pretty well in your life. Decent enough mother. Does it make you sick, knowing you disappointed her?

Made him sick? They had to be fucking kidding him. Every time he saw his mother's see-through fake tears, he couldn't help but let out a laugh. She didn't give a rat's ass, and neither did he.

You should be ashamed of yourself, putting a nice lady like that through such hell.

'Nice lady'— that was a new one. He'd heard many remarks made about his mother being 'nice', but none of them lacked a perverse or sarcastic meaning. What he was most looking forward to, however, was the look of fear on her face. He couldn't wait to see her first interview after he freed himself; the genuine intimidation that shook her core and struck her spine. The immobilizing feeling of being truly scared, as he had throughout all his childhood.

You've got a fucked up head, kid. I can tell you do, just by the way you're looking at me. You're enjoying this, aren't you? It's just a game to you, life is, and everyone else is just pawns. But, guess what? You're losing your own game, kid, and now you're playing by our rules. This would all be so much easier on you if you'd just play along, give us some answers…

Here was the answer he always gave up for his interrogators: No. He refused to comply. He preferred watching the officers flinch at his every movement, seeing them cringe when he spat the occasional disgusted phrases, and witnessing the hope leave their eyes every time he shot down their attempts to get answers out of his so-called 'fucked up head'. He was in control of the situation; he could tell he did. And as long as he had that, he had his escape.

You're never getting' out of here, kid. It's gonna be so much more difficult for you if you don't just answer us.

But, not answering was the key. Because he knew that he was faster, stronger, and smarter than the sad excuses of cops they had at his prison. He hated them all, and they would know it very soon. Because he, Steven Leonard, was getting his ass out of jail. Which was why, on this momentous occasion, he was going to speak. He would give them the answers that they were so vigorously searching for… at least, for a little while. Until they got close enough for him to kill them.

Open your mouth, kid. Why've you got it if you ain't gonna use it?

Steve stood up from his bed and towards his steel bars, placing his rubber band back on his wrist as he stared out at the officer strolling down the officer. He cleared his throat to get the man's attention, and when he approached Steve, he spoke the sentence that everyone in the jail had been waiting to hear from him: "I'm ready to talk."

A/N: So, based on our schedule, you'll see Steve's escape attempt (not sure whether or not to actually let him out yet) in chapter fourteen. Cool? Cool. :D

Once again, thanks to my Beta(:

Review anyone? :D