Arica. The 1980s.
Florida.
Inside a maximum-security prison.
Ding... ding...
The sharp bell cut through the block. Every cell door clanged open at the sa ti.
Inmates stepped out and ford ragged lines. Guards moved fast, shouting orders and pushing the crowd forward.
"Line up and move into the chow hall. One at a ti. No bullshit."
In the middle of the pack, one face stood out.
Luke kept his head down, drifting at the back of the line while every pair of eyes in the place drilled into him.
Every con who passed gave him the death stare. One big guy even stopped, hawked up a thick loogie, and spat it right at Luke's boots.
"Pah. Fucking snitch."
"Rat bastard. Who you selling out to your bosses today?"
The guards swung their batons and shoved the loudest ones away, but it didn't help. It only made the rest of the yard hate him more.
Luke sighed inside.
These guys weren't wrong. He was a snitch.
Two weeks earlier, a string of heavy hitters had turned up dead for no reason. The warden wanted it quiet, so he asked the cops for an undercover to dig around.
Luke—top graduate from the academy—had volunteered first. The chief signed off without blinking.
Nobody thought about the one detail that would get him killed.
The guy they sent in was mixed Asian-Arican.
Arica's full of mixed Asian-Arican. Prisons? Different world.
The cons here only knew two kinds: quiet little bookworms who kept their heads down, or the ones who got carved up in the showers.
Then this new guy shows up—chatty, asking questions, poking his nose where it didn't belong.
And right after he walked through the gates, more bodies dropped.
Yellow mud in his pants. Whether it was shit or not, it stank.
By the ti Luke crossed over, the original body had already been stomped to death in so dark corner by a pack of angry cons.
All he could do was shake his head.
Florida don't play.
Luke had just sat down with a tray of gray mystery slop when—
BANG!
A tray slamd onto the table hard enough to rattle every plate in the room. Cold food and thin soup splashed across his chest and face.
A low, nasty voice followed.
"Hey, filthy cockroach. Who the fuck said you could sit here?"
Luke looked up.
A tall, bald Black guy towered over him, eyes full of pure hate. Luke knew the face. "Iron Hamr." Lapdog to one of the dead cons—"Mad Dog."
The guy kept dumping food everywhere, talking shit the whole ti while his boys closed in from behind, cracking knuckles and blocking the only way out.
They wanted him to swing first so they could beat him bloody with a clear conscience.
In here, getting isolated was the sa as getting a death sentence.
The original owner's body was proof.
This ti, though, they picked the wrong target.
Luke didn't flinch or look scared like they expected. He just stared at the empty air in front of him.
Only he could see the glowing panel.
[Na: Luke]
[Physique: 1.2]
[Psionic: 1]
[Specialty: Prisoner Fitness LV2 (114/1000): Physique Bonus 0.2]
His golden finger. The one that ca with the ride.
He'd picked up the "Prisoner Fitness" skill from so of the other cons' workout books. Grind the reps, gain XP, level it up, get stronger.
Two weeks of brutal training and he'd already pushed it to level two. His body was noticeably tougher than the average man's.
"Little man, you ignoring ?" Iron Hamr growled, reaching for Luke's collar.
Enough hiding.
Luke moved first—fast, clean, no wasted motion. His hand shot out, locked around the bigger man's wrist, twisted down hard, and drove forward with his whole weight.
The stat bonus hit like a freight train.
Iron Hamr felt his arm get yanked like it was caught in a vice. His balance vanished. His face slamd into the table with a wet crunch.
"Shit! You got the balls to fight back?!"
The big man's voice cracked with shock and rage. He never expected skinny guy to have that much strength or that much fucking nerve.
Luke decided to end this fast and loud. Make an example. Keep the rest of the yard off his back.
"Dirty fuck. I hate when people run their mouths while I'm trying to eat."
He grabbed a fistful of the man's scalp and smashed his head down again. Trays jumped. Food flew everywhere.
"You like my seat so much? Let feed you."
Luke swept his free hand across the table, scooping up a disgusting pile of slop and soup, clenched it tight, and shoved the whole ss straight into the howling man's mouth.
"Grrrk—!"
Iron Hamr's jaw popped out of its socket with a sickening crack.
Luke let go. The big man dropped to the floor, clutching his ruined face and screaming.
His crew froze, then backed off fast when Luke turned that sa cold stare on them.
Finally. So goddamn respect.
Luke exhaled, sat back down, and reached for a clean piece of bread like nothing had happened.
Job done. Now he just had to solve the murders quick and get the hell out of this shithole.
He still underestimated how crazy these Florida boys got when the pressure finally popped.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds.
From the far corner ca a wild, excited howl.
"FOOD FIGHT!"
"I been sick of this garbage for weeks—let's go!"
Before Luke could even spot the first guy who yelled—
A tray smashed into another con's face. Old gang beefs, old grudges, every bit of pent-up hate exploded at once.
"Fuck you, white pig!"
"Kill these wetbacks!"
The whole chow hall turned into a war zone—food, trays, fists, and bodies flying in every direction.
Strangest part? Right in the middle of the chaos, a perfect circle opened up around Luke. Nobody wanted any part of the guy who'd just gone full animal on Iron Hamr.
Luke glanced around, shrugged, and kept eating his bread in peace.
His work was finished. No reason to join the party.
DING—!
The alarm finally went off. A wave of guards in full riot gear stord through the doors, shields and batons swinging.
The brawl got crushed in under a minute.
And as the man who'd started the whole thing, Luke got walked out under every pair of eyes in the place—
Two guards flanking him, straight to the warden's office.
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