The orders from Prosecutor Carter were absolute and final. Six riot-gear clad guards moved with vicious efficiency. They ignored Ethan Blake’s newly healed status and treated him like a dangerous, rabid animal.
"Get him out! Move, Blake!" a guard yelled, ripping the restraints from the headboard and snapping heavy, uncomfortable shackles onto Ethan’s ankles and wrists. His body, now surprisingly resilient thanks to the Basic Qi Breathing, absorbed the rough handling, though the tal digging into his skin was painful.
They dragged him out of the infirmary, down corridors, and out into the cold night air of Oakwood County. They didn’t bother with a standard transport car; an unmarked, armored van with reinforced steel walls was waiting.
"In the back, scum! Move!" an officer snarled, shoving Ethan’s head down.
Ethan was thrown onto the bare, cold steel floor of the van. The guards piled in, their presence heavy and nacing.
The engine roared, and the van lurched forward violently, throwing Ethan against the unforgiving wall. The guards weren’t looking for compliance; they were looking for retribution for their wounded comrade and the embarrassnt caused to the Prosecutor.
"You like smashing faces, huh, Blake? Let’s see how much you like this," a guard sneered, kicking Ethan hard in the ribs.
The kicks and punches began, delivered mostly to his torso and shoulders. Ethan curled slightly, instinctively covering his head and face with his shackled hands, but he deliberately left his chest and abdon exposed. His newly purified skin, already hardened by Qi, was now his secret weapon. He knew that the guards were expecting to see him bleed, to see purple bruises bloom across his skin.
Ethan thought: Don’t show the face. Let them hit the ribs. They won’t see the blood they expect.
"Cry for your lawyer, terrorist!" another guard taunted, delivering a sickening blow with a heavy boot to his side. Ethan grunted loudly, forcing the sound out to satisfy their need for pain, even though the impact rely caused a dull ache, not the paralyzing agony that should follow such a hit.
"This is what happens when you disrespect a federal prosecutor! You just bought yourself a one-way ticket to a very dark hole," an officer spat.
The insults continued—dog, killer, punk, piece of filth—as the van sped down the highway. Every sudden brake slamd Ethan against the tal, jostling his internal organs, but the restorative power of the Qi within him mitigated the damage, preventing any fresh bleeding. He kept his face shielded, enduring the blows that would have hospitalized a normal man. The ride was a continuous loop of noise, violence, and the tallic sll of stale blood and fear, lasting what felt like an eternity.
The van eventually slowed, the harsh glare of floodlights illuminating the massive, imposing walls of the Lexington Federal Penitentiary. This was a place built for maximum containnt, a fortress of concrete and steel where the most dangerous enemies of the state resided. The air here was colder, heavier, saturated with oppressive authority.
Ethan was roughly pulled from the van. His body ached, but he was standing—a fact that baffled the guards, who were used to dragging unconscious prisoners from such transfers.
As he was being marched through the initial intake area, a narrow, caged corridor used for transferring high-risk inmates, he heard a familiar, ragged cough.
"Look at the new at. They gave you the full federal welco, huh?"
Ethan turned his head sharply. Shoved against the wire sh wall by two heavily armored guards was Jason. Jason’s face was swollen, his left eye was already turning a deep purple, and his suit jacket was ripped. He looked like he had been put through a at grinder.
"Jason! What happened to you?" Ethan asked, his voice raw.
Jason managed a painful, bitter laugh. "State prison was nice compared to this. They dragged out of my cell two hours ago. Told soone up high ’pissed off the Prosecutor’ and now we’re both special guests here at Federal Max." Jason’s eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of dark humor lighting his good eye. "I assu that ’soone’ was you, Boss."
Ethan looked down, feeling a surge of guilt and regret. "I’m sorry, Jason. I had to make a stand. I didn’t take the deal. I told them Vance was a terrorist."
"Oh, I know you did," Jason said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I heard the rumors flying around the state jail about the broken teeth and the imdiate transfer. Don’t be sorry. That bastard deserved it, and so did the rest of the snakes. We’re in hell, Blake, but we’re together. Now we fight the system from the inside."
The guards separated them violently.
"No talking, prisoners! Move out!" a new officer barked.
Ethan Blake was shoved down the corridor toward processing, leaving Jason behind. They were quickly stripped, subjected to a brutal, dehumanizing visual and cavity inspection, and then forced into a stall for a freezing cold, high-pressure shower. The shock of the cold water, combined with the earlier trauma, was intended to break the spirit. Ethan endured it all, letting the water wash away the blood and grit, his body humming with the protective Qi.
Clad only in rough, ill-fitting orange jumpsuits, Ethan and Jason were shoved into a central processing area. That’s when she appeared.
She was a black woman of striking, formidable beauty, dressed not in a simple guard uniform, but in the crisp, tailored attire of a high-ranking prison official—a Deputy Warden or Captain. Her eyes, however, were the most arresting feature: cold, hard, and utterly devoid of warmth, like chips of polished black ice.
She looked Ethan and Jason over, a slow, contemptuous assessnt that took in their bruised bodies and defiant posture.
"Welco to Lexington," she said, her voice low, lodious, and perfectly controlled—a terrifying contrast to the brutality around them. "I am Captain Hayes, but you will refer to as The Iron Lady. This is not a sumr camp, and you are not n. You are pieces of property now, and this is my house."
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