The blare of sirens tore the prisoners from their restless sleep. The doors opened with a crash of iron, and the usual procession resumed toward the yard. Frost emerged, his body still marked by the nocturnal training, his muscles aching yet alive. He felt the pain as proof, an invisible scar of his own will.
At his side, the Redhead walked in silence. His closed face, his half-shut eyes, gave the impression of total detachment. And yet, Frost sensed something else behind that façade: a constant observation, almost animal-like.
The yard already swelled with cries, blows, and crude laughter. The Trine were there, gathered together, and one of them—Kael—raised his hand in a discreet greeting. Frost nodded without slowing down. No ties. Not yet.
Suddenly, a crowd caught his attention near the training circle. Several prisoners had formed a ring. In the center, two silhouettes fought barehanded. Blood already stained the stone, each strike ringing out like a bell of shattered flesh. The audience roared, hungry.
— "The Rounds," the Redhead muttered.
— "Organized fights run by the top dogs. No rules, no limits. Just survival."
Frost narrowed his eyes.
— "And Veyron?"
The Redhead allowed a near-imperceptible smile.
— "He's the architect. He bets, he chooses, he makes examples. And trust me… since yesterday, his eyes are on you."
A heavy silence settled. Frost watched the fight, breath held. One of the combatants finally collapsed, jaw shattered, body convulsing as the crowd screamed. The victor raised his arms, drenched in sweat and blood, while a masked guard ended the spectacle with a cold gesture.
Frost turned his gaze away. This wasn't just a playground—it was a forge, a savage ritual to break the weak and raise monsters. And sooner or later, he would have to step inside.
⸻
The evening fell like a leaden shroud. In the cell, Frost resumed his training. His arms screamed, but he persisted. Push-ups, sit-ups, improvised pull-ups clinging to the bars. Each movement was a silent prayer to his own survival.
The Redhead watched him for a long time, stretched out on his bunk. Then, without warning:
— "You really want to stand against Veyron?"
Frost stopped, panting, his forehead drenched. He turned to him with a hard gaze, burning with fire.
— "I'm not here to bend."
The Redhead sighed, shaking his head.
— "You don't get it. Veyron doesn't just strike with fists. He strikes with shadows. With fear. Even the guards let him play his game."
— "Then he'll fall," Frost answered, his voice low and sharp as a blade.
Silence stretched, heavy. Then the Redhead smirked faintly, almost ironic.
— "You're either the dumbest fool in this prison… or the one who might finally crack it."
Frost lay back down on the cold floor, his muscles still trembling from exertion. But in his eyes, no fatigue glowed. Only a raw, unshakable conviction.
No matter the chains, no matter Veyron, no matter the masked guards.
He would not bend.
Never.
⸻
The next day, the yard buzzed with unusual rumors. Prisoners seemed excited, eager, as if they already knew blood would be spilled.
Frost, still sore from his nightly training, advanced without hurry. The Redhead walked beside him, eyes half-closed as always. Then, at the turn of a corridor, the crowd parted on its own.
Veyron appeared.
He walked slowly, flanked by four lieutenants. His shaved skull gleamed under the gray light, a dark tattoo snaking down his neck. But it was his smile that chilled the air: wide, assured, cruel.
— "So, the new one. They say you've got guts. That you refuse to bow," he said, his dragging voice cutting through the silence.
Frost met his gaze without replying.
Veyron stepped closer.
— "Good. I like to test the insolent."
He snapped his fingers. One of his men stepped out—massive, chest covered in scars. His fists looked like anvils, and his eyes burned with simple, animal violence.
— "This is Garruk. He doesn't talk much. He prefers to speak with his fists. And you, kid… you'll answer him."
The crowd erupted in shouts. Already, a circle formed—an improvised arena. The guards did not move. Worse, some had stopped to watch.
Frost felt his heart hammer, but his fists clenched on their own. He slid his right foot back, shoulders slightly turned. Fighting stance.
Behind him, the Redhead murmured:
— "Hold on. Here, one victory is worth more than a thousand words."
⸻
The crowd closed around the circle. The damp ground, slippery in places, formed their makeshift arena.
Garruk cracked his neck, then his knuckles. His broad shoulders looked carved from stone. Frost inhaled deeply, palms slick, his body still sore from the day before. But he held his guard—clumsy, yet firm.
— "Come here, runt," Garruk growled.
He charged at once, no warning. A monstrous straight, swung like a hammer. Frost raised his forearms to block—the impact rattled his bones. Pain shot through his wrists. Too strong…
He retreated, searching for an angle. Garruk gave no time. Right hook. Dodged by inches. Uppercut. Frost leaned back, felt the knuckles skim his chin.
He countered with a messy burst—two straights, a left hook—slamming into the brute's ribs. Garruk absorbed them almost unfazed, then drove in a knee strike. Frost twisted, barely escaping, but the blow clipped him and sent him sprawling.
The prisoners howled, split between mockery and cheers.
Frost rolled aside, pushed back to his feet. His breathing already ragged. Too solid… but slow.
This time, he pressed forward. A side step, then a feint to the body. Garruk bit, lowering his guard, and Frost struck: a right hook to the temple. The giant's head jerked, but he stayed upright.
A bloody grin spread across Garruk's lips.
— "Nice… Now my turn."
He swung down with fists like sledgehammers. Frost blocked, barely, his arms trembling under the weight. Then Garruk swept with his forearm, striking with a brutal cross. The blow hurled him against the crowd, who shoved him back in with cruel laughter.
Frost spat blood. His ribs blazed. His mind flashed back to another night—the hooded figures, quick as shadows, who had butchered his parents. Them, I couldn't keep up with… But him, he's slow. Too heavy.
He raised his guard again. His movements were still raw, but his gaze sharpened. He waited.
Garruk lunged again, wide hooks pounding the air. Frost ducked, weaved, slipped under an arm. His fist shot up—uppercut, right on the chin. The giant staggered.
Now!
Frost pounced: left straight, right straight, hook to the liver. His technique was rough, his footing shaky, but his speed made up for it. Garruk, driven back, barely parried, then lashed out with a vicious backhand.
The strike cracked across Frost's cheek. His vision spun. His legs buckled. His whole body screamed to give up. But he dug his heels into the ground, teeth clenched. Not here. Not in front of him. Not now.
In a desperate surge, he closed the gap, chest pressed to the colossus. There, in the suffocating clinch, he struck short: elbows, headbutts, fists hammering the solar plexus. Sloppy, ugly blows—but relentless.
Garruk tried to shove him away, but Frost, smaller and quicker, slipped inside. An opening. He twisted his hips, throwing a left hook with every shred of rage in him.
The impact rang out. Garruk's temple buckled.
The giant collapsed, face-first on the stone. Motionless.
A stunned silence fell. Then the crowd erupted—some cheering, others cursing.
Frost stood, swaying, lip split, ribs aflame. His fists dangled, trembling. But his eyes locked on Veyron.
The leader no longer smiled. His gray eyes gleamed with a predator's amusement. Then, slowly, he allowed himself a thin smile.
— "Interesting. Very interesting…"
And he turned away, leaving Frost alone in the center of the arena—shattered, yet victorious in a fight he never should have won.