The cell smells like piss and industrial cleaner.
Jack lies on the top bunk, tossing a rubber ball against the ceiling.
Catch.
Throw.
Catch.
Throw.
The rhythm is meditative. It keeps his mind focused. Keeps the rage contained.
Cage.
The name loops through his thoughts like a mantra.
How do I kill him from in here?
Jack's already considered the obvious options.
Bribe a guard. Get a message out to Bones. Have someone on the outside handle it.
But Cage isn't stupid.
He'll be expecting retaliation. He'll have doubled his security. Tripled it, even.
No. It has to be personal.
I need to be the one who does it.
Jack catches the ball mid-air and squeezes it.
The ball leaves his hand again.
Arcs toward the ceiling.
And then—
A hand snatches it out of the air.
Jack's body tenses immediately.
His eyes snap to the figure standing beside his bunk.
A man.
Mid-thirties.
Lean. Wiry.
Dark hair slicked back.
Sharp cheekbones.
Pretty, almost.
Too pretty for a place like this.
The man grins, tossing the ball from hand to hand.
"Well, well, well," he says, his voice smooth. Mocking. "The great King of Southside."
He whistles low, shaking his head.
"In the flesh. Right here in my humble cell block."
Jack's eyes narrow.
His muscles coil.
Is this another one?
Another assassin sent by Cage?
The man must read it on his face because he raises both hands defensively, the ball still clutched in one.
"Whoa, whoa," he says, grinning wider. "Easy, killer. I'm not here to shank you."
Jack doesn't move.
Doesn't blink.
The man laughs.
"Seriously. Look at me." He gestures to himself. "I'm far too pretty to be a killer."
Jack's jaw tightens.
"Give me the ball," he says, his voice flat.
The man tosses it to him.
Jack catches it without looking away.
"Get out," Jack says.
The man shakes his head, still smiling.
"That's not how things work in here."
He leans against the cell bars, crossing his arms.
"In here, you're not a king. Not a boss. Just another inmate."
Jack ignores him.
He lies back down and resumes tossing the ball.
Catch.
Throw.
Catch.
Throw.
The man watches him for a moment, his smile fading slightly.
"You know," he says, "I expected more when I heard the King of Southside got tossed in here."
Jack doesn't respond.
"Where's the ferocious guy who took over the whole damn neighborhood?" the man continues. "Where's the guy who burned down buildings and put bullets in people's heads?"
Jack catches the ball and holds it.
He turns his head slightly, just enough to meet the man's eyes.
"He's gone," Jack says quietly. "Became a better man."
The man stares at him for a long moment.
Then he laughs.
Not a mocking laugh this time.
A genuine one.
"Bullshit," the man says. "The darkness is never really gone. It just waits."
He pushes off the bars and heads toward the cell door.
Before he leaves, he glances back.
"By the way," he says, "more people in here want to kill you than not."
He taps the bars twice.
"Sleep light."
And then he's gone.
Jack stares at the ceiling.
Alfonso.
He'd heard the name earlier when the guards were doing roll call.
Alfonso Ruiz.
In for armed robbery and assault.
Jack tosses the ball again.
More people want to kill me than not.
The cafeteria is loud.
Voices echo off the concrete walls. Trays clatter. Chairs scrape.
The smell of overcooked meat and stale bread hangs in the air.
Jack sits alone at a corner table.
His tray in front of him.
Meatloaf—if you can call it that.
Mashed potatoes that look like paste.
A piece of cornbread.
Watery juice. He eats slowly, methodically. His eyes scan the room. The other inmates are watching him.
Whispering.
Some openly stare.
Others glance and look away quickly.
Jack can feel the weight of their attention.
They're sizing me up.
Deciding if I'm worth the risk.
A group of men near the serving line are huddled together, talking in low voices.
One of them—a big guy with a shaved head and a scar running down his cheek—keeps looking Jack's way.
Jack doesn't react.
He takes another bite of meatloaf.
Chews.
Swallows.
Then the big guy stands. He says something to his crew, and they laugh. He picks up his tray and walks toward Jack's table.
Jack doesn't look up.
The man stops in front of him.
"Yo," the man says.
Jack keeps eating.
"Yo, I'm talking to you."
Jack sets down his fork and looks up.
The man is massive.
Six-four, maybe six-five.
Easily two-fifty.
His arms are covered in prison tattoos.
Crude. Faded.
"I want your cornbread," the man says.
Jack's expression doesn't change.
"Leave," Jack says.
The man grins.
"Nah. I don't think so."
He leans down, his face inches from Jack's.
"I said I want your cornbread."
Jack picks up the cornbread.
He takes a bite.
Chews slowly.
Swallows.
The man's grin disappears.
His jaw tightens.
"You think you're funny?"
Jack doesn't answer.
The man straightens up.
And then he spits.
Right into Jack's tray.
The saliva lands in the mashed potatoes, mixing with the pale mush.
The cafeteria goes quiet.
Everyone is watching now.
The man stares at Jack, his eyes challenging. Daring him to react.
"Give me the cornbread," the man says again.
Jack looks down at his tray. At the spit. At the ruined food. His hands are steady. His breathing is calm.
Don't react.
Not here.
Not now.
Jack picks up the cornbread and takes another bite.
The man's face twists with rage.
He grabs Jack's tray and slams it into his face.
The food smears across Jack's cheeks, his nose, his mouth.
Mashed potatoes. Meatloaf. Juice.
The cafeteria erupts in laughter.
The man steps back, grinning again.
"My apologies, Your Majesty," he says mockingly.
He pulls a napkin from his pocket and tosses it onto the table.
"Clean yourself up."
The man walks away, his crew laughing and clapping him on the back.
Jack sits there.
Food dripping down his face.
His hands resting on the table.
He picks up the napkin. Wipes his face slowly.
Methodically.
The laughter continues. But Jack's expression doesn't change.
He's calm.
Controlled.
Repressing the anger. Burying it deep.
For now.
He finishes wiping his face and sets the napkin down.
Then he stands.
Picks up his tray.
And walks to the trash.
He dumps the ruined food and sets the tray on the rack.
As he turns to leave, Alfonso appears beside him.
"You know," Alfonso says, leaning against the wall, "it's not always good to repress your anger."
Jack doesn't look at him.
"That's how you end up exploding," Alfonso continues. "And in here, explosions get you killed."
Jack walks past him without a word.
Alfonso watches him go, a faint smile on his lips.
"Or maybe that's what you want," Alfonso murmurs to himself.
***
The cell block is quiet.
Most of the inmates are asleep.
The fluorescent lights have been dimmed to a dull orange glow.
Jack lies in his bunk, eyes closed.
But he's not asleep.
He's listening. Footsteps.
Soft. Careful.
Someone trying to be quiet. Jack's breathing stays steady.
Slow. Even.
Here we go.
The footsteps stop outside his cell.
A shadow moves across the bars. The cell door creaks open—someone bribed a guard, or picked the lock.
Jack doesn't move.
The footsteps enter the cell. Slow. Deliberate. Jack can hear the man's breathing now.
Ragged. Nervous. Amateur.
The man approaches the bunk. Jack can feel him standing there.
Hesitating.
Then—
The sound of metal sliding against fabric.
A shiv. The man raises it. And plunges it down.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
The blade punches through the blanket, stabbing into the mattress.
The man keeps going.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
He's frantic now.
Desperate.
Then he stops.
Something's wrong.
The resistance is off.
Too soft.
The man pulls back the blanket.
And freezes.
Pillows.
A stack of pillows arranged to look like a body.
"What the—"
An arm wraps around his throat from behind.
The man gasps, dropping the shiv.
Jack's arm tightens, cutting off his air.
The man claws at Jack's forearm, his feet kicking.
Jack drags him backward, away from the bunk.
He slams the man against the wall.
Hard.
The man's head bounces off the concrete.
Jack leans in close, his voice a low growl.
"Who sent you?"
The man gasps, trying to speak.
Jack loosens his grip slightly.
"Nobody," the man chokes out. "I—I just—"
Jack tightens his grip again.
"Bullshit."
The man's eyes bulge.
His face is turning red.
"I'll snap your neck," Jack says. "Right here. Right now. Who. Sent. You."
"Cage!" the man gasps. "Cage sent me!"
Jack's jaw clenches.
Of course.
"How many more?" Jack asks.
"I don't know!" the man says. "I swear, I don't know!"
Jack slams him against the wall again.
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying!" the man says, his voice breaking. "I'm just a street thug, man! Cage offered me money! Said your days were numbered anyway, so it'd be an easy paycheck!"
Jack stares at him.
The man's eyes are wide.
Terrified.
He's telling the truth.
Jack shoves him forward, releasing his grip.
The man stumbles, gasping for air.
"Get out," Jack says.
The man doesn't move.
"I said get out."
The man scrambles for the door, his hands shaking.
He glances back once, his face pale.
"Don't ever show your face in front of me again," Jack says.
The man nods frantically and runs. Jack stands there, breathing hard. His hands are trembling.
Not from fear. From rage.
He walks over to the bunk and looks down at the pillows.
The shiv holes are deep. Vicious.
That could have been me.
That should have been me.
Jack picks up the shiv from the floor.
It's crude.
A sharpened piece of metal wrapped in tape.
But it would have done the job.
Jack sets it on the small shelf beside his bunk.
He sits down, his head in his hands.
Cage isn't going to stop.
He'll keep sending people until one of them gets lucky.
And eventually, one of them will.
Jack looks up at the ceiling.
The fluorescent light flickers.
I need to get out.
I need to get out now.
His mind races.
Calloway is working on an appeal, but that could take weeks.
Months, even.
Jack doesn't have that kind of time.
I need another option.
I need a plan.
Jack lies back on the bunk, staring at the ceiling.
His hands are still trembling.
But his mind is clear.
Focused.
I'm not dying in here.
Not like this.
Not for Cage.
Jack closes his eyes.
I'm getting out.
Whatever it takes.
I'm getting out.