This morning was Maroni's first day in Wayne's private prison.
More accurately, it was his first morning after his first night in what could only generously be described as hell with a rental agreement.
"WAKE UP! EVERYBODY GET UP! IT'S HALF PAST FIVE!"
The voice came through speakers mounted somewhere in the ceiling, loud enough to wake the dead and probably annoy them considerably. It had the cheerful, manic energy of someone who genuinely enjoyed destroying other people's sleep.
"PEOPLE WHO GET UP AT THIS TIME ARE THE ELITE! THE FUTURE CEOS! THEY ARE THE SALARYMEN WHO CARRY THE ECONOMY! THEY ARE THE ONES WHO GIVE 120% 'GAMBARU' SPIRIT! THEY ARE THE 'EARLY BIRD' THAT SAVES THREE COINS! THEY ARE THE SENPAI THAT EVERYONE ADMIRES! THEY ARE THE DISCIPLINED SOULS WHO MEDITATE UNDER WATERFALLS! THEY ARE—
Every sentence was shouted at maximum volume. Every sentence felt like a dental drill applied directly to the sleep-deprived nervous system. Every sentence was clearly designed by someone who understood that psychological torture didn't require physical contact.
Salvatore Maroni woke from his bunk on the third level—the top bunk of a triple-decker monstrosity—feeling like his entire body had been beaten with baseball bats while he slept. His back ached. His shoulders screamed. His neck had developed a crick that would probably require surgery to fix.
This was the first time in his life that Sal Maroni, heir to a criminal empire, had slept in a crowded environment.
The smell of sweaty feet hung in the air like a physical presence. The bed was hard as concrete, barely softened by a mattress that felt like it had been manufactured during the Prohibition era. The thunderous snoring from the bunk below him had provided percussion all night. The sound of farts had added bass notes. The grinding of teeth from somewhere in the darkness had completed the symphony of human misery.
It turned out that whether rich or poor, powerful or powerless, prisoners in maximum security all suffered in exactly the same way.
Well. Almost the same way.
The wealthy prisoners had the option to pay their way out. They just had to survive long enough to arrange the financial transaction.
In fact, during the first half of last night, all the prisoners in the twenty-square-meter cell had been awake. Sleep was impossible. The conditions were too horrific, the adjustment too dramatic, the reality too crushing.
The prison guards hadn't stopped them from talking in low voices. That would have been merciful. Instead, they'd simply warned the inmates that conversation would be charged at ten dollars per hour—ten dollars multiplied by their respective prison sentences, with everyone in the cell charged equally regardless of who was actually talking.
Two people having a conversation? Everyone pays. One person ranting? Everyone pays. Complete silence? Free.
It was a brilliant system for encouraging social isolation and mutual resentment.
However, this financial deterrent still couldn't stop their desire to talk. These were men who'd lived lives of luxury before prison—expensive homes, expensive cars, expensive women. Now they were trapped in a moldy concrete box with nineteen other people, sleeping on bunks designed for sadists, breathing air that smelled like despair.
They had complaints. So many complaints.
As for the thousands of dollars being deducted from each person overnight for the privilege of venting those complaints? That seemed less important at the time. Money was abstract. Suffering was immediate.
"Can we escape?" someone had whispered in the darkness. "If we could just get out—"
"What nonsense are you talking about?" Another voice, harsh with stress and exhaustion. "There's Batman out there. Can you guarantee you won't be caught? If you're caught escaping, you're forced to stay in these conditions for an additional week. Minimum."
"Fuck that, if I keep running—"
"Then you'll be sent to Arkham." The response came swift and horrified. "Didn't you listen to what Poison Ivy said? Do you want to be locked up with that group of lunatics who kill people for entertainment? The Scarecrow, the Mad Hatter, the Joker, Calendar Man—they're all in there now. You want to give that a try?"
Silence. Nobody wanted to be in Arkham. The Asylum was where you went when Gotham decided you were beyond redemption. Maximum security at Wayne's prison was horrific. Arkham was a nightmare that ate nightmares for breakfast.
"God damn it," someone muttered. "Am I really—"
At that moment, an inmate on the lower floor had reached up and patted the complainer's bunk. "Look at it from the bright side, at least. The Wheelchair Stripper, Catwoman, Penguin, Mr. Freeze—none of them got thrown into Arkham. Otherwise, that place would be even more of a freak show."
"The Wheelchair Stripper is definitely working with Batman," someone else insisted. "As soon as Batman appears, the wheelchair guy disappears. I'm telling you, the wheelchair pervert is Batman in disguise. Just satisfying some weird fetish."
"I think Catwoman's involved too," another voice chimed in. "Maybe Batman formed an alliance with her and that wheelchair psycho. Some kind of vigilante polycule."
"Everyone." A new voice, tired and exasperated. "Are we really going to discuss comic book conspiracy theories here? We are adults. Supposedly respectable adults who ran criminal enterprises."
"Then what should we discuss? How to upgrade our accommodations?" The speaker's voice dripped with bitter sarcasm. "That bitch Poison Ivy said we have to stay here for three days before we can even apply for an upgrade. She actually called it an 'upgrade!' Have you ever heard of a subscription service for not living in hell?"
"One hundred dollars a month," someone else calculated aloud, their voice breaking slightly. "Multiplied by our sentences. My base rate is ten thousand dollars a month. Every month. For decades. Damn it, do they think they're selling presidential suites? Why doesn't Bruce Wayne just rob us at gunpoint? It'd be more honest!"
"Robbery is illegal." The response came flat and matter-of-fact. "This is legal. That's the difference."
"I'm not paying it!"
"Then Bruce Wayne can openly apply to the court for enforcement." The voice carried the exhausted resignation of someone who'd already accepted defeat. "Don't forget—he can directly deduct these charges from your prison living expenses, and the court won't be biased toward you now. The legal system is literally on his side. You'll pay, or you'll stay in this concrete box until you die or go insane. Whichever comes first."
A moment of silence while that sank in.
Then someone else spoke—an insurance company owner who'd been lying on the third bunk, silent until now. His voice carried a sneering recognition of professional respect.
"What's there to complain about? Who here doesn't like making money?" He laughed without humor. "If we had this opportunity—if we could build a system this perfect for extracting wealth from captive customers—who wouldn't make more money than Bruce Wayne? This is brilliant. Evil, but brilliant."
"Well, he's right," someone else admitted grudgingly. "That idiot Bruce is being smart for once."
"I'd rather he just be as confused as usual," Maroni muttered from his bunk. "At least he'd deduct less money from me."
At that exact moment, a voice suddenly sounded from outside the cell door.
"Everyone." The prison guard's voice was calm, professional, completely unbothered by the late hour. "I'm not sure what you're thinking, but it's already one in the morning. You have to get up at five-thirty. You don't have much time left to rest."
A pause.
"Of course, if you still want to continue chatting, I don't mind. After all, there's money to be made."
The casual acknowledgment of the profit motive sent a chill through the cell.
Maroni's entrepreneurial instincts kicked in despite his exhaustion. He whispered toward the cell door: "Boy, let me ask you—do you want to make money?"
The cell suddenly became deathly quiet. Everyone looked at each other in the darkness, hope flickering despite everything. Even if they couldn't get out, being able to bribe a prison guard would give them considerable freedom. Better food. Better conditions. Maybe even a way to settle scores.
"Very good," Maroni continued, his voice taking on the tone he'd used for business negotiations back when he ran an empire. "There is an opportunity right in front of you now. All you have to do is grab it—"
"If I seize this opportunity," the guard interrupted calmly, "I'll be prosecuted and thrown into a cell with you fine gentlemen. I'll also be fined. All the money I could possibly earn would be confiscated. You probably can't imagine how strict the surveillance of prison guards is here."
The guard paused, then added conversationally: "I really want to know who designed this system. It's corruption-proof. Genuinely impressive."
The hope died as quickly as it had ignited.
"Mr. Maroni." The guard's voice carried the careful respect of someone addressing a VIP who'd fallen from grace. "I recognize your voice. You're quite a figure in Gotham, so I'm giving you some friendly advice: Don't try to exploit loopholes. Just spend the money on the upgrade. Even if you somehow managed to escape, your father would send you back."
The guard's tone shifted to something almost sympathetic. "It's become known to many people in Gotham that Luigi Maroni is... let's say, a little dissatisfied with your love life."
Everyone in the cell immediately turned their attention toward Maroni's bunk. Gossip was human nature, even in hell.
Maroni remained silent, seething.
Damn it. The affair with Sofia was exposed.
He recalled what Luigi had said during his last visit, several days ago. The old man's voice had been cold, businesslike, the tone of a boss giving orders rather than a father offering guidance.
"Sal, those two traitors—Vernon and Jenkins—are going to prison. That idiot Harvey Dent thinks I really let them go, that I accepted his deal in good faith." Luigi had smiled without warmth. "Find an opportunity. Have someone kill them both in there."
Maroni hadn't expected that in just the few days between that conversation and now, those two bastards would sell him out to his father again. Probably part of their testimony. Probably mentioned the Sofia affair to explain Maroni's motivation for the assassination attempt.
Traitors to the end.
"I have two pieces of advice for you, Mr. Maroni." The guard's voice pulled him back to the present. "First, respect the prison schedule. Whether it's roll call or labor assignments, it's important to comply. Resistance only costs you money and freedom."
He paused. "Second—and you'll find this interesting—Mr. Vernon Wells and Mr. Jenkins are also imprisoned here. Different section, but same facility. You can pay the prison to arrange a boxing match if you want. If the stated reason is reasonable and properly documented, the administration will agree to let you settle your personal grudge while wearing protective gear."
Maroni's eyes suddenly lit up in the darkness.
A legal way to hurt them. To make them pay for betrayal. To personally deliver punishment for ruining his life, his family, his freedom.
It would cost money, naturally. Everything here cost money.
But some expenses were worth it.
After being interrupted like this, everyone lost the mood to continue chatting. The reality of their situation had been laid out too clearly. There was no escape. No bribery. No loopholes. Just money, compliance, and the slow grinding horror of decades in this concrete box.
The inmates endured the remaining hours of night on hard, cold bed boards covered with bedding that smelled like mildew and institutional despair. They finally fell asleep amid the sound of dripping water from the corner, the musty smell that permeated everything, the occasional scurrying of small creatures with too many legs, and the pitch-black darkness that pressed down like a physical weight.
Sleep wasn't quite the right word.
Passed out from exhaustion was more accurate.