Beaten, broken, but unyielding—hate becomes John's lifeline.
The clang of the morning bell tore through the block. Metal doors slid open, and prisoners spilled into the yard.
John stepped out, ribs aching from the previous night. The air reeked of sweat and smoke, but freedom—even within these walls—tasted bitterly sweet.
Carter walked beside him, smirking. "Stick close, heir boy. Wouldn't want you to get lost."
John said nothing. He'd already learned that silence was his only shield.
But silence didn't stop fists.
In the yard, gangs marked their territories. A group played basketball with frightening intensity, while others smoked in corners, their eyes scanning like predators. Guards stood watch but never intervened unless knives flashed.
Leo nudged Carter, nodding toward the far end.
There, a tall man in a tailored grey suit stood talking to a guard. His expensive shoes gleamed despite the dust. A gold ring glimmered on his finger.
John froze. He knew that ring.
Uncle Raymond.
His father's younger brother. The man who had smiled during the board meeting while voting to strip John of his directorship. The man who whispered poison into Godwin's ear. The real mastermind behind John's calamity.
Raymond glanced across the yard—and his eyes locked on John. A smile tugged at his lips.
Carter stepped closer to John, voice low. "Boss wants you broken. Completely."
John's fists tightened. "Boss?"
"Your uncle," Carter sneered. "He pays good money to keep you alive just long enough to suffer."
The words hit harder than any punch. John had always thought it was only Godwin's betrayal. But now? His own blood—his uncle—was feeding the wolves that circled him.
That night, the cell became a pit. Carter and Leo took turns battering him, each blow sanctioned by Raymond's orders.
"Count it!" Carter barked after every strike.
John wheezed through blood. "One…"
Another punch.
"Two…"
His vision blurred. His ribs screamed. But he kept counting, forcing the numbers through cracked lips. Because every number meant he was still alive. And every number carved Raymond and Godwin's names deeper into his soul.
Days blurred into weeks. The torture never stopped. Whispers spread through the prison about the heir who refused to break.
Even Leo began to look uneasy. One night, as Carter slept, he leaned toward John.
"You should've been dead by now," Leo muttered. "But you keep standing. Why?"
John's gaze flicked up, bloodshot but burning.
"Because hate keeps me alive."
Leo's grin faltered. For the first time, he believed him.
In a high-rise office across the city, Godwin Mark sipped whiskey. Raymond sat opposite, scrolling through documents.
"The boy is finished," Raymond said smoothly. "By the time he crawls out of there—if he ever does—he'll be nothing but a shell. You'll inherit everything."
Godwin smiled, but unease stirred at the back of his mind. Because deep down, he knew his brother wasn't the type to die quietly.
In the darkness of Cell 27, John lay awake, his body broken but spirit unyielding. He whispered into the silence, each word a vow etched in blood:
"I will survive this. And when I do… I will burn them all."
The flickering bulb buzzed overhead, casting shadows across his hardened face. The heir was dead. What remained was a man reborn in suffering.
A man with nothing left to lose.
The Fall of Chairman Mark
The world outside Blackridge Prison moved quickly. While John fought to stay alive behind concrete walls, the empire his father had built for decades was slipping into chaos. The mansion was too quiet. Once, its hallways had been filled with the sound of life—maids bustling, phones ringing, meetings held in the study that stretched late into the night. Chairman Mark thrived on that rhythm. It was the sound of control, of empire, of a man whose presence filled every room he entered. Now, silence smothered the place. Silence, broken only by the slow, uneven rhythm of his footsteps.
A week had passed since John was taken away in chains, yet for Chairman Mark, time had become unrecognizable. Days blurred into nights, meals into tasteless routines. He no longer sat at the long dining table. Instead, he lingered in the study, staring out through the tall windows as though the city itself might provide an answer he could not find within his own heart.
The newspapers lay scattered across his desk, their bold headlines like daggers.
"Heir to Mark Holdings Sentenced."
"Family Legacy in Tatters."
"Can Mark Holdings Survive the Scandal?"
"The Fall of a Dynasty?"
He tried once to read beyond the headlines, but the words bled together until they became indistinguishable from the pulse pounding in his temples. He crushed the paper in his hand and hurled it into the fireplace. But no fire came to consume it. It lay there in the ashes, a mocking reminder of what he could not burn away. For a man who had lived and breathed reputation, the disgrace was unbearable.
Sophia came often, her visits a thin thread of humanity keeping him tethered. She brought food—soup, bread, little things to remind him of simpler times. Sometimes she would sit in the chair across from him and talk, her voice soft, steady, trying to anchor him. But Chairman Mark was slipping.
"I should have done more," he confessed one evening, his gaze fixed on the skyline, his reflection ghostly in the glass.
"You did everything you could," Sophia said gently.
He shook his head. "No. I saw Godwin's hunger years ago. I knew he wasn't content. I should have acted then—cut him out before he could infect everything." His voice broke, softer now. "And Raymond… I let him whisper into my son's ear. Now look where it's led us."
Sophia reached across the table, placing her hand on his. "John is strong. He'll survive this. You taught him to."
Chairman Mark managed a hollow smile, but his eyes betrayed him. They were the eyes of a man who carried guilt like lead in his veins. Sophia had no words. She could only hold his hand and pray silently for strength.
That night, when Sophia had gone, he wandered the mansion alone. His hands brushed across family portraits—the one of John as a boy, grinning proudly in his first suit; the one of the three brothers, long before greed had poisoned their bloodline. His steps carried him to John's old room, untouched since the arrest. The scent lingered faintly—books, cologne, and the aftershave John once stole from his father's bathroom.
The Chairman sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders trembling. "I'm sorry, son," he whispered into the dark. "I should have shielded you better."
In that moment, the empire meant nothing. The wealth, the power, the boardrooms—ashes in the wind. What was a dynasty worth when its foundation was betrayal and its heir was locked in a cage?
Behind the scenes, Godwin was moving like a shadow. In the boardrooms, his voice grew louder. He had been careful for years, hiding his hunger behind polite smiles, waiting for the right moment. John's downfall was that moment. Uncle Raymond, ever the opportunist, became his most valuable ally.
"It's the perfect chance," Raymond whispered one evening over glasses of whiskey in Godwin's penthouse. "Your father is weak. The directors are nervous. They need stability, and you can give it to them."
Godwin smirked. "They'll resist. They've always seen me as second choice."
"Then change their minds," Raymond said, his eyes sharp. "Money talks. Influence talks louder. And if all else fails, they will fear threats."
Godwin leaned back in his chair, considering. "And John?"
Raymond chuckled. "John is locked away where he belongs. He'll rot before he ever threatens you again."
The words settled in Godwin's chest like fire. For years, he had lived in John's shadow—the golden son, the chosen heir, the pride of their father. Godwin had been the afterthought, tolerated but never trusted. Now, finally, the scales were tipping.
On the seventh day after John's sentencing, the storm broke. Sophia arrived at the mansion with fresh bread from the bakery she knew Chairman Mark liked. But when she entered the study, the silence was too heavy.
"Sir?" she called softly.
There was no answer. Her eyes darted to the armchair by the window. Chairman Mark sat slumped, his head tilted unnaturally, his hand clutching the armrest as if reaching for something that never came.
The bread slipped from Sophia's hands.
"Sir!" she screamed, rushing to his side. She shook him, pressed her fingers to his neck, begged for a pulse. Nothing.
Tears blurred her vision as she fumbled for her phone, dialing emergency services with trembling hands. When the paramedics arrived, the verdict was swift. A heart attack.
Sophia's cries echoed through the mansion as the stretcher carried away the man who had been like her second father. And in the corner, unseen, Godwin watched with a face of stone.
The doctors called it a heart attack. The papers called it tragedy. But for John's father, it was something simpler. A man whose heart had been broken in the courtroom finally let it break completely.
The funeral was private but grand, attended by dignitaries, business partners, and politicians. The Mark family name still carried weight, even tarnished by scandal. The funeral was a storm of black suits and murmured condolences. Politicians, business tycoons, and journalists crowded into the cathedral, their faces somber yet curious, each handshake carrying the weight of calculation. To them, the death of Chairman Mark was not only tragedy—it was opportunity.
Sophia stood near the casket, her black veil damp with tears. John's absence carved a deeper wound into the ceremony—his chains had kept him from bidding farewell to the man who had believed in him most.
Godwin stood at the front, composed, his expression the picture of mourning. But inside, his heart was thrumming with victory. Every handshake, every whispered condolence, was another nail sealing his place as the new face of the empire.
Uncle Raymond hovered close, ensuring the right people noticed Godwin's presence. "You're the son who's here," he reminded him in hushed tones. "That matters more than anything."
It worked. By the end of the day, directors and investors alike were already murmuring about transition, about the need for strong leadership to weather the storm. Godwin smiled through his crocodile tears.