From boardroom to prison cell, John learns the first rule of survival.
The transport van rattled like a cage on wheels, its iron bars clanging with every bump in the road. John Mark sat shackled, the weight of the chains digging into his wrists. He kept his eyes on the floor, ignoring the jeers of the two inmates opposite him.
"So this is the golden boy?" one sneered. "The prince who stole from his own company?"
John didn't answer. He had learned already that words were useless here.
The van stopped with a screech. The doors opened, and a gust of foul, humid air greeted them. Blackridge Prison loomed ahead—its grey walls rising like a fortress, its gates wide enough to swallow men whole. The guards barked orders, dragging them out one by one.
"Move!"
John stepped inside. The clang of the gates closing behind him sounded like the sealing of a tomb.
The Intake process was brutal. Guards stripped him of his clothes, shaved his hair down to bristles, and shoved him into an orange jumpsuit with the number 54321 stitched across the chest. His name was gone. He was a number now.
When he was finally led into the cell block, the noise hit him—a wall of curses, laughter, and metal clanging against bars.
"Fresh meat!" someone shouted.
John's stomach tightened. He was pushed into Cell 27.
Two men looked up from their bunks.
Carter was a mountain of muscle, tattoos crawling up his arms like snakes. Beside him was Leo, wiry and sharp-eyed, with a grin that never reached his eyes.
"Well, well," Carter said, standing. "Look who they sent us. The rich boy."
Leo chuckled. "Boss said we'd be getting a guest. Didn't think it'd be this pretty."
John's instincts screamed at him. He kept his face neutral, though his pulse raced.
"I don't want trouble," John said evenly.
Carter's grin widened. "Oh, you'll get plenty, whether you want it or not."
The first punch came without warning, a brutal hook to his ribs. John gasped, doubling over as pain shot through his side. Leo laughed and shoved him onto the floor.
"Rule one, golden boy," Carter growled. "There are no heirs here. Only dogs. And dogs eat or get eaten. Rule number two, you must do whatever we tell you to do, okay?"
John answered in fear: "Understood"
Hours later, John lay on the thin mattress, his body aching from the beating. The cell smelled of sweat and rust. The flickering bulb overhead cast long shadows, each one twitching like a nightmare waiting to pounce.
He stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, mind spinning.
His brother's face wouldn't leave his thoughts. Godwin's cold smirk during the trial. The satisfaction in his eyes as the gavel came down.
This is what he wanted, John realized. To break me here, where no one would hear me scream.
A slow fire began to burn inside him. He was bruised, humiliated, stripped of everything—but he was still alive.
And as long as he lived, Godwin had not won.
The prison bell rang. Carter's shadow loomed again.
"Up, heir boy. Tomorrow we start teaching you how this place really works."
John sat up slowly, wiping blood from his lip. He met Carter's gaze, his own eyes steady, though pain gnawed at him.
"Do what you want," John muttered, his voice low, steady. "But one day… I'll make you regret it."
Carter laughed, thinking it bravado. But Leo, watching carefully, shivered at something in John's tone.
The golden heir was gone. What remained was something harder. Something that would not break.
The cell was colder than John expected. Not just the damp chill that crept in through the cracked concrete walls, but the kind of cold that sank into his bones and made his heart ache. He lay on the thin mattress, the springs digging into his back, staring at the ceiling where a single bulb flickered. Every so often, footsteps echoed through the corridor outside, guards pacing like predators on the hunt. From the other cells came curses, laughter, and the occasional scream muffled too quickly.
It was his first night In Blackridge Prison, and already it felt like the end of the world.
Carter had given him a second beating before lights-out, just to remind him who owned Cell 27. Leo had joined in, his wiry hands quick and cruel. John's ribs burned with every breath, his lip split open, the metallic taste of blood still coating his tongue. He shifted slightly and winced. Every movement hurt. He wanted to close his eyes, but the darkness only brought memories.
His father's face rose in his mind.
Chairman Mark—tall, broad-shouldered even in his old age, with that steady gaze that made boardrooms fall silent. Just two weeks ago, that gaze had been filled with pride as he told John the company's future was secure in his hands.
"You have vision, John," he had said, his hand gripping John's shoulder in that way only a father could. "Vision is what sets leaders apart. Remember that."
John shut his eyes tighter, willing the memory to vanish. But the harder he tried, the sharper it became—the smell of his father's cologne, the warmth of his smile, the applause of the boardroom when he'd been praised. And then the gavel falling, the chains tightening, the cameras flashing.
From heir to convict. The humiliation crushed him more than the bruises.
For years, John had tried to prove himself, not just as a son but as a man worthy of the Mark legacy. His mother's death when he was seventeen had left a void, one his father filled with discipline and guidance. Every late night in the office, every risky investment, every boardroom negotiation—he'd done it not just for himself, but to make his father proud. And now?
Now the Mark name was dragged through the mud, headlines screaming his guilt. And Godwin—John could still see him in the courtroom, sitting smugly as if he had already inherited the throne. The thought made John clench his fists. Pain shot through his ribs, but he didn't let go.
A low chuckle came from the bunk above. Leo leaned over the edge, his eyes glinting in the dim light.
"Still awake, golden boy? Thinking about your fancy cars? Your big house? Your girlfriend with the pretty face?"
John ignored him, staring at the ceiling.
Carter stirred from the bottom bunk, his voice thick with amusement. "He's thinking about survival. Aren't that right, heir boy? Wondering how long before someone cuts that pretty face of yours open."
John forced his breathing steady. "I'll survive," he muttered.
Carter laughed. "Big words. We'll see how long that lasts."
The cell fell quiet again, but sleep didn't come. John lay awake, each passing second stretching like an eternity. Somewhere in the distance, a man screamed—a raw, desperate sound cut short by the blow of a baton. John turned his face to the wall, and memories rose again, unbidden.
It had been a week before his arrest. John and his father had sat in the garden of their estate, the city skyline glowing in the distance. Chairman Mark's health had been fragile in recent years, the stress of running the conglomerate weighing heavily on him, but that night he had seemed content.
"Your mother would have been proud," he said, his voice softer than usual. "She always said you had her heart. I see it now."
John had smiled faintly. "And Godwin?"
His father sighed, the lines on his face deepening. "Godwin is… complicated. He has ambition, but ambition without restraint is like fire. It burns everything in its path."
John frowned. "You still trust him?"
Chairman Mark's eyes had hardened. "Trust is earned, John. And Godwin has not earned mine the way you have."
That night, John had felt both proud and uneasy. Proud that his father believed in him—but uneasy at the storm brewing in Godwin's silence. The memory twisted like a knife now.
John hadn't known it then, but within days, that trust would be shattered. His father would watch him dragged through court like a criminal, and a week later, the old man's heart would fail.
John rolled onto his side, biting back a groan. The prison stank of sweat, piss, and despair, but he clung to his father's words.
"Vision is what sets leaders apart."
Vision.
Even here, stripped of everything, he couldn't let Godwin win.
He thought of Sophia, her eyes blazing with conviction in the courtroom, her voice steady as she declared his innocence. He thought of her hand squeezing his, her whispered promise: I believe you. That belief was all he had left. The fire in his chest flared. Yes, he was broken now. But broken things could be remade. Hardened. Sharpened.
One day, he would walk out of this tomb. And when he did, Godwin would pay.
John's eyelids finally grew heavy, exhaustion winning out over pain. As he drifted into a restless sleep, Carter whispered from the shadows, a grin in his voice:
"Tomorrow, rich boy, we see if you've got any fight in you."
John didn't answer. He was already gone, lost in dreams where his father's voice echoed and Godwin's smirk waited like a promise.
The night passed slowly in Blackridge Prison, but somewhere in that darkness, a seed of vengeance took root. And it would grow.