When the unique wake-up bell rang through the speakers for the second morning in a row, most of the prisoners didn't want to get out of bed. Some found it difficult to even open their eyelids. The stiff bed they'd complained about so bitterly last night—the mattress as thin as cardboard, the springs that dug into their backs like prison shanks—now seemed like absolute heaven compared to facing another day in this concrete hellscape.
At that precise moment, the devilish voice returned to the loudspeakers.
"My fellow prisoners." The tone was cheerful, helpful, the audio equivalent of a smile that showed too many teeth. "With all due respect, you may be able to afford the deduction for staying in bed. But you may not be able to withstand the subsequent chain reactions."
A pause for effect.
"These include: missing roll call, missing this morning's labor assignment, not having your upgrade waiting period reduced by today's compliance credit, and the malnutrition caused by missing meals. Which, I should mention, compounds over time."
Another pause.
"One more thing. The cell door will only open when all the people in the room have made their beds and are fully dressed in regulation uniforms. Otherwise, the door will only open automatically after breakfast time has ended."
The voice took on a tone of genuine good wishes. "Or, you can choose to continue sleeping together in your cozy accommodations. Good luck, everyone."
Listening to the broadcast, the few prisoners who were still conscious—the light sleepers, the anxious ones, the men whose survival instincts hadn't been completely destroyed by exhaustion—remembered what the prison guard had told them last night.
"It is important to abide by the prison schedule, whether it's roll call or labor."
"Oh my god!" One of them sat bolt upright. "Hurry up! HURRY UP! If we miss roll call, we'll have wasted the whole day stuck in here!"
About half a minute later, the entire cell block erupted into chaos.
The prisoners who'd been awakened by the broadcast pulled their accomplices out of bed with varying degrees of violence. Some shook shoulders. Some yanked feet. Some started shouting directly into sleeping faces and slapping cheeks with the desperate urgency of someone trying to wake a drowning victim.
"Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP YOU BASTARD, WAKE UP!"
"Stop hitting me, you idiot! Hitting Nader harder won't wake him faster!"
"Why are you, a judge, so harsh with your hands?"
"What? You can't even fold a quilt? Just fold it casually! Nobody cares if it looks good!"
The sky outside was still dark—it was five-thirty in the morning, the kind of hour that existed purely to punish early risers and prisoners. But the cell block suddenly became as bustling as a stock exchange floor during a market crash. Wherever the guards walked, the prisoners scrambled with frantic energy.
The vibrant, thriving atmosphere felt less like a prison and more like a subway station during rush hour, if subway passengers were all convicted criminals trying to avoid financial penalties.
"DANG DANG DANG—"
The bell rang over the radio. Six chimes. Six o'clock exactly. After the bell stopped, the voice of a prison guard rang from outside the cells.
"I'm too lazy to bang on the iron door with a baton like they do in the movies." The guard's voice carried the bored professionalism of someone who'd given this speech a hundred times. "Actually, the prison's punishment for you mainly comes in the form of fines and sentence extensions. If you don't want to be dragged out of bed one morning and told you're bankrupt—or that your thirty-year sentence just became forty—I suggest you think about the orientation training you received."
A pause.
"Everyone line up in thirty seconds! Get out of the cells!"
Salvatore Maroni, wearing an orange prison uniform that was somehow both too tight and too loose simultaneously, touched his cool bald head. They'd shaved it before processing him into general population—standard procedure to prevent inmates from hiding small blades or other contraband in their hair, and to avoid certain hygiene problems that came with overcrowded facilities.
His fingers traced the unfamiliar smoothness of his scalp. Sal Maroni, who'd always kept his hair styled perfectly, who'd spent hundreds of dollars on haircuts at Gotham's most exclusive barber, now looked like every other inmate in the block.
For the first time in his life, he was included in a crowd rather than standing above it.
Even though he was Sal Maroni—powerful, wealthy, ruthless, decisive, connected to every major criminal operation in Gotham—after changing into the prison uniform, he blended into the crowd of prisoners wearing the same orange jumpsuits.
He was no longer conspicuous. No longer special. Just another number in the system.
"Neeley Spencer?"
"Here."
"Salvatore Vincent Maroni?"
"Here." He answered the guard's roll call subconsciously, the word leaving his mouth before his brain could stop it.
Then he clenched his fists in anger at himself. He was very dissatisfied with his state of automatic obedience, felt a kind of shame that came from being trained like a dog to respond to commands. When had Sal Maroni started taking orders from prison guards? When had he become just another compliant inmate?
This is temporary, he told himself. Just until I can arrange the upgrade. Just until I can get out of maximum security. Just until—
A moment later, the roll call was completed. The prison guards led the entire block toward the cafeteria in a long, shuffling line.
In the eyes of most observers, the scene would have been unmistakable: sheep being herded by a shepherd. Docile. Controlled. Moving as a unit because resistance was expensive and compliance was cheaper.
Everything here made the prisoners feel extremely uncomfortable. They'd long been accustomed to the extravagant, free, unrestrained life outside these walls. Even the slightest restraint—being told when to wake, when to walk, when to eat—made them feel strongly dissatisfied.
But dissatisfaction cost money.
So they shuffled forward in silence.
"Good morning, friends."
When all the prisoners lined up to receive their meals, a familiar voice rang out over the cafeteria's PA system. Most of the prisoners didn't react immediately—it was just another voice, another announcement, another dehumanizing reminder that they had no control over their lives.
But when Maroni heard the voice, every hair on his body stood on end. His face showed panic, genuine terror, the kind of primal fear that came from recognizing a predator.
At that moment, he began to doubt for the first time whether he could walk out of this prison alive.
"I'm your chef this morning." Jude's voice carried through the speakers with cheerful enthusiasm. "Or rather, I'll be your chef for three meals a day from now on. You may or may not have recognized me, but it doesn't matter."
A pause.
"Just remember one thing—from now on, there will be no other chefs in this prison besides me. So please enjoy your meal. The food standard you experience today will be the standard of food served in this cafeteria forever."
Maroni listened to Jude's words with a mixture of emotions churning in his gut. Joy, because Jude's cooking skills were definitely not bad—he'd worked in restaurants, knew his way around a kitchen, probably could make something edible even with prison-grade ingredients.
Worry, because it was Jude speaking on the radio. Which meant that while his cooking might not be fatal, his presence certainly was. Wherever Jude went, disaster followed. The restaurant had been bombed. The hideout had been massacred. And now Jude was in charge of feeding them.
What could possibly go wrong?
With this mixture of hope and dread, Maroni approached the serving window to receive his meal, then shuffled to his assigned seat in the cafeteria.
And then—
Maroni sat at his workstation later that morning, looking confused. Disoriented. Like someone who'd survived a traumatic event but couldn't quite remember the details.
He knocked his head against the table, feeling his brain churning like stomach acid. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. A burning sensation in his throat. A general sense that something terrible had happened, but his mind refused to process the specifics.
How did I get to my workstation?
He tried to remember.
What did I have for breakfast this morning?
The memory was there, but somehow blurred, like his brain had automatically applied a protective filter to prevent psychological damage.
No—it wasn't that he'd forgotten. His brain had deliberately blurred the memory in order to protect him from reliving the trauma.
"Morning. I ate. In the morning."
He held his head in his hands and searched his mind desperately, trying to reconstruct the experience despite his psyche's best efforts to suppress it.
Slowly, painfully, the memories surfaced.
The orange-yellow paste.
It had been served in a bowl. Thick, lumpy, the color of something that shouldn't be food. Maroni had stared at it, spoon in hand, while Jude's voice explained over the PA system:
"I've meticulously researched and cooked this cornmeal. It looks like shit. It smells like shit. The texture is shit when it goes down your throat. But I want to assure you—it's made from one hundred percent pure, authentic corn. Make no mistake: this is shit-flavored cornmeal, not actual shit!"
Jude's voice had carried genuine pride. "To create this specific flavor profile, I've dedicated several days to research. I guarantee you'll be amazed at what I've accomplished!"
Maroni had eaten it because missing meals meant malnutrition penalties. Every spoonful had been an act of will.
The colorful sticky liquid in the cup.
Juice, allegedly. Though "juice" seemed like a generous description for whatever hellish concoction filled the plastic cup.
"Pineapple, watermelon, apple, bitter melon, milk, soy sauce, salt, MSG, and spicy soup mix," Jude had announced cheerfully. "Just like the corn paste, this is also a delicious beverage I carefully prepared. There are no inedible ingredients in it. Every fruit is guaranteed fresh. Every condiment is guaranteed hygienic. The ingredients inside are absolutely healthy and nutritious."
A pause.
"You don't have to worry about the hygiene quality of my kitchen. Everything is prepared to the highest safety standards. It's just that the flavor combination might be... unconventional."
Maroni had drunk it because dehydration meant medical penalties. Every sip had been a war crime against his taste buds.
The toast.
He couldn't identify what it was made from just by looking at it. Brown, slightly grainy, vaguely bread-shaped. It looked normal. Almost reassuring after the horrors of the paste and juice.
"This staple bread is not made by me personally," Jude had explained over the PA. "So it's nothing special. Don't worry—it tastes perfectly fine. It's exactly the same as all the bread you usually eat outside. Maybe it will become your favorite food here."
Relief had flooded through the cafeteria. Normal bread. Finally, something normal.
Then Jude had added, almost as an afterthought:
"But there is one thing I should mention. This bread is made from insect powder. Cricket flour, specifically. Very high in protein. Completely safe for human consumption. Technically more nutritious than regular wheat flour."
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