Chapter 6: 8 Years of Suffering (End)
The morning light had barely touched the cracked windows of Block 9, filtering in weak and gray through the bars, when a scream tore through the silence like a knife. It started low, building into a raw wail that bounced off the concrete walls and woke every man in the cells nearby.
One of the inmates—a thin, gray-faced man named Collins, with shaky hands and eyes that always darted like a trapped rat—stood frozen outside Cell 9B. His mouth hung open, his skin turning the color of ash. "GUARD! GUARD! SOMEONE! HE'S—HE'S DEAD!" The words choked out of him, high and broken, carrying down the empty corridor like a bad dream spilling over.
Boots thundered down the hall, heavy and urgent, shaking the floor. Keys rattled in frantic hands, metal clanging against metal. The iron door to Cell 9B screeched open on rusty hinges, the sound grinding like teeth.
Inside, Edgar Munsen hung from the ceiling, his body still and limp, the rope tight around his neck, biting deep into the skin. His face was calm—almost peaceful, like the storm inside had finally quieted. The stool he'd kicked away lay on its side nearby, one leg splintered and bent. Beneath him, on the small, scarred table that served as his only furniture, a folded sheet of paper rested, simple and unassuming, weighed down by his prison ID tag—a thin plastic card with his faded photo and the number 93219 stamped in black.
A guard stepped forward first, his face draining of color, hands trembling slightly as he reached for the note. His fingers fumbled, unfolding the creased paper with care, like it might bite. His voice cracked as he read it aloud, the words hanging heavy in the stuffy air, his colleagues gathering behind him in a tight knot, their faces pale and drawn under the harsh fluorescent lights.
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To whoever finds me,
If you're reading this, it means I finally stopped pretending there's something waiting beyond these walls. The days blurred into nights, and all I saw was the same gray—endless, crushing. They said I was free. Tomorrow, they said, I could walk out those gates, breathe air that didn't stink of rust and regret. But out there, there's nothing for me—no family to call home, no job or friends waiting with open arms, no name that isn't cursed by whispers and stares. Eight years in this hell taught me that freedom isn't given like a gift; it's taken, clawed for with blood and bone. And the only thing I have left to take is my own breath, my own end.
Don't blame anyone for this—or maybe, blame everyone. The world built me up just to break me, twice over. Once as Edgar Munsen, the fool who believed in justice, in people who smiled and shook your hand. I trusted the wrong ones, and they turned that trust into chains. The second time, as Kaizer in my first transmigration or second life, I fought the game harder, saved the ones who were supposed to matter, only for fate to twist the knife deeper—betrayals that echoed here, in this cell, every night.
To my family: keep your apologies. They're just words now, empty as the letters you never sent.
To Evelyn: I hope your nightmares never stop. May you see my face in every shadow, hear my voice in the quiet, reminding you of the man you let hang.
To those who suffered like I did in this place—the beatings, the nights that broke you piece by piece—live if you can, fight if you must. But never believe this world will save you. It chews you up and spits out the bones.
And to Warden Tenpenny… thanks for treating me like a man, not a monster. You looked me in the eye, shared a smoke or two, kept me breathing longer than I deserved. For that, I owe you.
Burn my body. No coffin, no priest droning words that mean nothing. And don't let my family, that woman, or any vulture from the media near me. Let me rot where the noise can't find me, where the lies can't touch.
— Edgar MunsenPrisoner #93219, Block 9B
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The guard swallowed hard, his throat working like it hurt, eyes stinging red as he folded the paper back. "He… he really did it," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, like saying it louder would make it more real. Another guard turned away quick, muttering a curse under his breath, his fist clenching at his side. The air in the cell felt thicker now, heavy with the smell of sweat and finality, the drip from the sink the only sound breaking the quiet.
Then came the heavy steps of Warden Tenpenny, his broad frame filling the corridor like a wall moving forward. His boots echoed steady, but his usually calm face—hard lines etched from years of running this pit—broke clean when he pushed through the cluster of men and saw Edgar's body swaying slight in the draft from the open door. "...Damn it," he whispered, the words rough, like gravel in his chest. "Fuck."
He turned toward the nearest officer, his voice snapping back to command, though it carried an edge of something raw. "Contact his family or anybody who still knows him—make it official, quick and clean. I knew that kid wanted to die… just didn't think he'd do it here, on the edge like this." He stared at the hanging figure for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw twitching tight, his eyes tracing the rope, the calm face, the scars peeking from the collar. "Rest in peace, Munsen. You deserved better than this end."
He reached up himself, pulling a pocket knife from his belt, the blade glinting cold. With steady hands that didn't shake, he cut the rope in one clean slice. Edgar's body dropped sudden, and the warden caught it mid-fall, his arms wrapping strong around the weight, lowering it gently to the cold floor like handling something fragile. "You stubborn bastard," he muttered, voice thick and low, kneeling there with the body cradled for a beat too long. Dust motes danced in the weak light, settling on them both.
When word spread through the blocks—whispers first, then shouts that died quick—the noise that followed wasn't the usual chaos of the prison, the yelling and banging that marked fights or lockdowns. It was grief, raw and unexpected, settling like a fog over the cells.
Men who had once feared Edgar—the Beast of Block 9, the one whose name made fists unclench and eyes drop—now sat in silence on their bunks, heads bowed low, staring at the floor or the bars like they saw ghosts. Some of them cried—quiet at first, then harder, shoulders shaking—not for what he had done, the blood on his hands or the bodies he'd left, but for what he had endured, the hell they all knew too well.
"He saved me from those animals back when I first got here," one inmate muttered to his cellmate, voice rough with snot and tears, wiping his face with a stained sleeve. "Cornered me in the showers, ready to end it all. Munsen walked in like nothing, broke their jaws without a word. Walked out like it was Tuesday."
"He was the only one who fought back when the Crips ran this block," another said quietly from the shadows of his cell, his voice carrying soft down the row. "Took on five of 'em alone, fists and teeth, left 'em bleeding in the yard. After that, no one touched the weak ones. Peace, for once. He bought it with his own skin."
The name Munsen began to echo through the cells like a prayer—rough, low, full of something between respect and sorrow, passed from bunk to bunk in the dim light. Stories spilled out, half-remembered fights and quiet talks, the man who'd shared his ration with the new fish or stared down a guard without blinking.
For the first time in years, Block 9 was completely still—no catcalls, no pacing, just the weight of shared loss hanging heavy, the air thick enough to choke on.
Two days later, the warden arranged the funeral himself—quiet, simple, just as Edgar had asked in that note, no frills or crowds to turn it into a show. The service was held behind the old chapel at the edge of the prison grounds, a forgotten patch of dirt and weeds ringed by chain-link and razor wire. The sky hung low and overcast, the air cool with the bite of fall, carrying the faint smell of turned earth and pine from the distant woods.
There were no reporters sniffing for headlines, no family clutching tissues or Evelyn with her wide eyes and regrets. Only the guards who'd known him best, a handful of inmates granted the hour out of their cells—hardened men in orange jumpsuits, hands cuffed but heads high—and the wind that tugged softly at the black cloth covering the plain wooden coffin, flapping like a flag at half-mast.
Warden Tenpenny stood at the head of the shallow grave, a cigarette trembling between his thick fingers, the smoke curling up gray against the dull sky. His face was lined deeper today, eyes shadowed from sleepless nights, but when he finally spoke, his voice was rough and steady, carrying clear over the group.
"Hah… I'll miss you, kid," he said, staring down at the coffin like it held answers, his free hand resting on the edge. "You did us a favor back then, when those Crips thought they owned this place—strutted like kings, beating down anyone who looked wrong. You slaughtered every last one of them, fists flying, no backup, no mercy. Blood on the walls, bodies in the yard. And for the first time in years, this precinct had peace. The guards could walk the blocks without looking over their shoulders. The weak—the ones like Collins out there, shaking and small—could sleep through the night without a boot in the ribs. You did that, Munsen. Turned the tide with your own hands."
He paused, his gaze dropping to the rope burns on Edgar's wrists—faint red rings against the pale skin, visible where the sleeves had ridden up. "You were a madman, sure—eyes like fire, temper that could crack stone. But you were our madman. Kept the balance when nothing else could. And I'll be damned if I say you didn't have guts, staring down this place day after day."
His voice cracked then, sharp in the quiet, and he cleared his throat rough. He took a long drag of the cigarette, the cherry glowing bright, then flicked it onto the dirt beside the grave, grinding it out with his boot. "Rest easy, Edgar. You earned it—more than most."
He nodded to the men beside him, two guards stepping forward with shovels. The coffin was lowered slow into the earth, ropes creaking under the weight. A dull thud followed as it settled—steady, final, like a door shutting forever.
Around him, hardened criminals wiped their eyes with rough hands, no shame in it, their faces carved with lines of their own losses. No one spoke; words felt too small. The only sound left was the soft rhythm of dirt hitting wood—shovel after shovel, pattering like rain, then heavier thuds as the grave filled, fading into silence.
When the grave was covered, a simple mound of earth patted flat, Warden Tenpenny stood for a long time, staring at it, the wind picking up to rustle the leaves overhead. "You were right," he muttered, voice low for himself alone, the words lost in the breeze. "The world doesn't save anyone. Chews 'em up, spits 'em out. But maybe you found peace where the rest of us can't—away from the noise, the lies, the game that never ends."
He turned away slow, the last light of evening catching in his eyes, turning them gold for a moment before the shadows swallowed him.
That night, as darkness settled over the prison, a strange calm lingered—as though the air itself acknowledged that a ghost had finally stopped haunting it, the echoes of his rage quieted at last.
And deep beneath the weight of the earth, somewhere between this world and the next, something stirred within the silence of Edgar Munsen's curse.