I'm crouched in the corner of my cell, back pressed against the cold cinder-block wall, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. The lights went out twenty minutes ago—total blackout, no red emergency strips, no nothing. Generator must've crapped out. In a place like this, that's not an accident. Somebody paid somebody.
And my door… my door is unlocked. I heard the magnetic lock click off with the power. I tested it with my foot a minute ago. It swings free.
Footsteps now. Slow, deliberate. More than one set. Coming down the tier. Whispered voices. They're coming for me, and there's nowhere to run.
The cell smells like piss, bleach, and old sweat. Just a concrete box: six by eight, steel toilet bolted to the wall with a thin steel mirror above it that's scratched to hell. Bunk welded to the wall, thin mattress rolled up because I couldn't sleep anyway. My few belongings scattered—couple of commissary ramen packs, a worn-out paperback somebody traded me, the plastic cup I use for coffee. Everything lit by the weak gray glow leaking in from the corridor window before the blackout hit.
Now it's pitch dark except for the faint orange flicker of flames somewhere down the block— seems the boys are already celebrating.
I close my eyes and it all rushes back. Funny how your life flashes when the reaper's walking your way.
Pride. That's what did me.
I was born with every advantage. Dad was a titan—real old-school, build-it-with-your-hands-and-crush-anyone-in-the-way kind of man. Concrete plants pouring foundations for half the skyline. Coke ovens glowing red at night. Battery factories humming twenty-four seven. Property development—whole blocks of steel skeletons waiting for glass and money.
He dragged me everywhere as a kid. Eight years old, standing in the dust and noise of a job site, hard hat swallowing my head, watching cranes swing beams into place. Dad barking orders, foremen jumping. He'd ruffle my hair and tell the crews, "This is my boy. One day all this is his."
I felt like a crowned prince. And I was smart enough to know it was true.
Dad wasn't born rich. He loved telling that story—usually after a couple of scotches, voice loud enough for the whole table to hear. "I came from nothing, Paulie. Dirt-floor nothing. But I built this." And he'd sweep his arm like he was showing off the whole damn skyline. Self-made man, through and through. Started with one busted concrete mixer and a second mortgage on Grandma's house. Ended up with plants, developments, fleets of trucks. I believed every word. Hung on it. Wanted to be exactly like him.
Problem was, everybody else saw me as the nepo baby riding his coattails. Teachers, kids at school, even some of the old-timers on his job sites—they'd smile to my face and then I'd catch the looks. "That's Ramos's boy. Got it easy." I hated it. Hated feeling like a fraud before I'd even done anything.
So I decided I'd show them. Show all of them. I'd be self-made too. Just… not the way Dad did it.
I cut him off cold. Told him I didn't want the internships, didn't want a corner office waiting for me when I graduated. I wanted to earn it my way. He thought I was crazy. Maybe I was.
I started small—moving weight for some guys I knew from the wrong side of town. Turned out I was good at it. Real good. Numbers came easy (Dad's genes, I guess). I could spot a weak link in a crew, figure margins, keep the books clean enough that nobody got pinched early. Money rolled in fast. Cars, clothes, girls who didn't care where it came from as long as it spent. For the first time it felt like it was mine. Not an allowance, not a trust fund. Mine.
I was twenty-one and living larger than Dad ever did at that age. Told myself I'd finally done it—proved I didn't need him.
Then it all went to shit.
One of my runners got robbed. Kid came to me crying, short five grand. I should've eaten the loss. Instead I sent a message. Message got out of hand. Next thing I know there's a body in an alley and my prints on the gun because I was dumb enough to show up myself. Pride again—wanted the guy to know it came from me personally.
Cops grabbed me two days later. Dad flew in lawyers from three states. For a minute it looked like money and connections might still pull me out. But while they were digging, a couple of my own guys—guys I'd treated like brothers—flipped. Gave up everything to shave time off their own sentences. Old deals, new deals, stuff I didn't even know they knew about. Charges stacked higher than I could count.
Dad sat across from me in the visitation room the day the new indictment dropped. First time I ever saw him look old. He didn't yell. Just said, "I built all this so you wouldn't have to do it the hard way, Paulie." I couldn't even look at him.
Now here I am. Supermax. Life, basically. And tonight the bill's come due.
What'd I do to piss these boys off?
Well, let's just say I never was good at being told what to do. Never have been.
Inside, I started quiet. Kept my head down at first. But pretty soon I saw how things worked—commissary, phones, protection, drugs. Same game as the streets, just slower and meaner. The Aryan Brotherhood ran the white side. Skinheads with the lightning bolts and the 88s calling the shots. They expected every white face to fall in line, pay tribute, carry their water.
I didn't.
I started talking to the Mexicans instead. Better deals, less drama, and they respected a guy who could count and keep his mouth shut. Word got around that if you wanted something done clean, you came to Ramos. Some of the younger white boys—ones who were tired of getting taxed every week—started drifting my way. Quiet at first. Then not so quiet.
Power switched. Not all of it, but enough. Enough to bruise egos.
The higher-ups in the Brotherhood caught wind. Next thing I know, I'm getting transferred to a different block. They bring me into an empty interview room—gray walls, bolted table, one door. Three of them waiting. The one doing the talking is small, wiry, maybe five-seven in boots. Bad jailhouse tattoos, meth-scrawny. Doesn't look like much.
Me? I'm six-three, thick from Pumping iron, arms sleeved in old-school Viking ink—ravens, knotwork, battle scenes from neck to wrist. I looked like the kind of guy mothers warn their kids about. I felt bulletproof.
Small guy leans on the table. "You've been stepping on toes, Ramos. Time to fall in line. Start kicking up, start doing what you're told."
I just laughed. Right in his face.
"You're serious?" I said. "You think I'm gonna bow down because you say so? Nah. Give it a few months. You'll all be working for me."
His eyes went flat. That was the wrong answer.
The first punch came from the guy on my right—big haymaker meant to drop me. I ducked under it, came up swinging. Caught him clean on the jaw—felt the bone shift. He staggered back, blood already coming from his mouth.
Second guy grabbed me from behind, bear-hug style. I slammed my head back into his nose—crunch, hot spray down my neck. Stomped his foot, felt something pop. He loosened just enough for me to spin and drive a knee into his gut. He folded.
The little guy rushed low, trying to take my legs. I sprawled, brought an elbow down on the back of his neck. He ate concrete hard.
But they kept coming. Fists, elbows, knees. I gave better than I got—cracked ribs, busted mouths—but three on one is three on one. Somebody grabbed a loose piece of metal from a broken chair. I didn't see it. It caught me behind the ear, lights flashed white. I went down to a knee.
Then it was boots and fists and rage. I curled up, threw punches when I could, tasted blood, felt teeth loosen. For a minute it was pure red chaos.
Whistles screamed. Boots pounded. COs in riot gear swarmed in, batons cracking skulls. Pepper spray burned everything. They peeled bodies off me, zip-tied everybody.
They dragged me to my feet. Head spinning, blood in my eyes. As they marched me past the mess toward the hole, I looked down.
The little guy—the messenger—was on his back now. Not moving. A dark pool spreading slow from under his head, thick and shining under the lights. Too much blood. Way too much.
They threw me in solitary and slammed the door.
A day later—maybe two—the warden came himself. Tall Black man, greying at the temples, always calm like nothing could touch him. He stood outside the bean slot, looking down at me on the bunk.
"You know that boy died," he said, voice flat.
I didn't answer. Just stared at the wall.
"I know you didn't start it," he went on. "Cameras show that much. But you just caught another body, Ramos. And the worst part is who you killed."
A chill crawled up my spine. "What do you mean?"
"That wasn't just some Brotherhood soldier. His big brother runs the whole show in here. Top shot-caller. Word's already out."
He let that sit for a second.
"Stay in the hole and you might live. We put you back in gen pop… ain't nothing I or anybody else can do for you."
Scared me. I won't lie. First time in years something actually scared me.
So I stayed. Four years in the box. Worked out till I couldn't move. Read everything the warden would let me have—Alexander the Great, Caesar, Napoleon, Clausewitz, all the way up to modern wars. He liked me for some reason. Gave me extra books, extra yard time alone, even a little radio sometimes.
Four years of push-ups, pull-ups, and pages.
Do I regret what my life became?
I guess so.
I'm sorry, Dad.
You didn't deserve this.
And now, in the dark, with the blackout and the unlocked door and the footsteps coming closer… I guess the bill's finally here.
The door creaks wide, and in they come—six of 'em, shadows in the blackout, big as linebackers, burly and mean. Tattooed from head to foot: swastikas, lightning bolts, skulls, the whole Brotherhood catalog. Their eyes gleam in the faint orange flicker from down the block, like wolves smelling blood.
"Did I say you could come in my house?" I growl from the corner, voice steady even though my gut's twisting. I stand up slow, rolling my shoulders, feeling the old Viking ink on my arms like armor.
The lead guy—bald dome, beard like steel wool—steps forward, smirking. "This prison all belongs to the Aryan Brotherhood. Jamie sends his regards."
Jamie. The big brother's name. The one whose little punk I accidentally turned into a corpse four years back. I knew this was coming. When the power first went off, yeah, I was scared—heart pounding, sweat cold on my back. But now they're here, filling the cell like a pack of hyenas, and something clicks. Ain't nothing I can do but face it. Really, only two options: die like a bitch, curled up begging, or die like a man, swinging till the lights go out for good.
Boom—the fight kicks off.
The lead guy lunges first, fast for his size, fist like a hammer aiming for my jaw. I sidestep, catch his arm, twist it hard—hear the pop of his elbow giving way. He howls, staggering back into the wall. Before I can follow up, two more are on me. One grabs my throat from the side, squeezing like a vice; the other drives a knee into my gut. Air explodes out of me, but I don't fold. I headbutt the throat-grabber—feel his nose crunch under my forehead, blood spraying hot across my face. He gurgles, releases, and I swing wild, catching the knee guy in the temple with an elbow. He drops to one knee, dazed.
But they're not done. Number four pulls a shank—homemade, jagged metal wrapped in tape—from his sock. He slashes low, aiming for my thigh. I jump back, but the tip catches me, slicing deep. Fire blooms down my leg, blood soaking my jumpsuit instant. I roar, grab his wrist, slam it against the bunk frame—crack, the shank clatters free. I drive my fist into his solar plexus, once, twice, till he wheezes and crumples.
Five and six pile in now, the cell a chaos of grunts, curses, and the wet smack of flesh on flesh. One tackles me low, driving me into the toilet—my back hits the steel rim, ribs cracking like dry wood. Pain explodes white-hot, but I use the momentum, wrapping my arm around his neck in a choke. He thrashes, nails raking my face, drawing more blood. I squeeze till his eyes bulge, body going limp. I shove him off, but the other one's already stabbing—quick jabs with another shank, in and out like a sewing machine. Shoulder, arm, side—each one burns, blood pouring free. Dozens of times? Feels like it. Warm slickness everywhere, my jumpsuit turning black in the dim light.
I'm slipping now—blood on the floor making it like ice. One of them charges, slips on a puddle of it, crashes into the bunk. I capitalize, stomping his head—thud, thud—till he stops moving. Another grabs me from behind, shank plunging into my back, twisting. I spin, throw a haymaker that connects with his jaw—teeth fly, he reels back, slipping off me 'cause I'm coated in gore now, red and sticky, like I've been dipped in paint.
The lead guy's back up, arm dangling useless, but he's got a shank too. We clash in the middle—me blocking, punching, him stabbing wild. He gets me good in the chest, the gut, the thigh again. Blood's bubbling from my mouth now, lungs wet and heavy. I knock him out cold with an uppercut that lifts him off his feet, but the others swarm again. Fists, feet, blades—I'm a pincushion, stabbed over and over, skin splitting, muscles tearing. I fight like a cornered animal, knocking another one out with a knee to the face, slamming a third's head into the wall till he slumps.
But there's too many. Too much blood loss. My vision's blurring, arms heavy as lead. I slip in my own mess, go down to one knee. They pile on—stabs raining down, boots kicking ribs, face, everywhere. I swing one last time, catch one in the nuts—he screams high-pitched—but it's over. I'm on my back now, staring at the black ceiling, blood pooling around me, warm and sticky, filling my ears with a roar.
The cell's a slaughterhouse—bodies groaning or still, walls splattered, floor slick red. I cough, taste copper, feel the cold creeping in.
Will Jesus take me into his kingdom? Or will my fight have earned me a spot in Valhalla?