The processing room smells like disinfectant and sweat.
Jack stands in a line of six men, all of them in handcuffs, all of them waiting.
A corrections officer sits behind a desk, typing slowly on a computer that looks like it's from 2005.
"Next," the officer says without looking up.
Jack steps forward.
The marshal behind him unlocks the cuffs.
Jack's wrists ache. He rubs them absently.
"Name," the officer says.
"Jack Morris."
The officer types. "Date of birth."
Jack gives it.
"Strip."
Jack blinks. "What?"
The officer looks up for the first time. His expression is flat. Bored. "Strip. Everything. Shoes, socks, underwear. Put it all in the bin."
He pulls off his jacket. His shirt. His belt.
The other men in line watch him with varying degrees of interest.
Jack kicks off his shoes. Pulls off his socks.
Then his pants.
Then his underwear.
He stands there, completely naked, in a room full of strangers.
The officer stares stunned for a moment at the old scars and burns covering most of Jack's skin, then gestures to a plastic bin on the floor. "Put it all in there."
Jack does.
"Turn around. Bend over. Spread your cheeks."
Jack's face burns.
You're just another inmate.
You're nobody here.
He turns around. Bends over. Spreads his cheeks.
The officer barely glances. "Cough."
Jack coughs.
"Again."
Jack coughs again.
"Turn back around. Lift your arms. Open your mouth. Lift your tongue."
Jack complies.
The officer nods. "You're clear. Get dressed."
A different officer hands Jack a folded orange jumpsuit, a pair of white boxers, white socks, and slip-on canvas shoes.
Jack pulls on the boxers. The jumpsuit. The shoes.
Everything is too big.
The jumpsuit hangs off his shoulders. The shoes flop when he walks.
I look like a fucking clown.
The officer behind the desk hands him a plastic wristband with a barcode. "Put this on. Don't take it off."
Jack snaps it around his wrist.
"You're in holding pen C-4. Follow Officer Ramirez."
A tall, broad-shouldered officer steps forward. "Let's go."
Jack follows him down a long hallway.
The walls are cinder block. Painted beige. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker.
They pass other holding pens. Jack can hear voices inside. Shouting. Laughter. The clang of metal.
Officer Ramirez stops in front of a heavy steel door with a small window.
He unlocks it with a key from his belt.
"Inside," he says.
Jack steps through.
The door slams shut behind him.
***
The holding pen is smaller than Jack expected.
Maybe twenty feet by fifteen feet.
Metal bunks line the walls—seven on each side, stacked two high.
Fourteen men total.
Most of them are sitting on the lower bunks. A few are lying down, staring at the ceiling.
One man is doing push-ups in the corner.
The smell hits Jack immediately.
Sweat. Piss. Stale air.
There's a single toilet in the corner, no partition, no privacy.
A metal sink next to it.
The fluorescent lights overhead hum.
Jack stands near the door, scanning the room.
The man doing push-ups is massive. Six-four, maybe two-fifty. Tattoos covering his arms and neck. He doesn't look at Jack.
On the far bunk, a skinny guy with a shaved head is talking to himself, rocking back and forth.
Near the toilet, two men are playing cards on the floor, using a deck that looks like it's been through a war.
And on the bunk closest to Jack, a man in his mid-thirties sits with his back against the wall, reading a paperback.
He's clean-cut. Short hair. No visible tattoos.
He looks up when Jack enters.
Their eyes meet.
The man smiles. "First time?"
Jack doesn't answer.
The man closes his book and stands. "Name's Orlo. Orlo Vale."
He extends his hand.
Jack hesitates.
Then he shakes it.
Orlo's grip is firm. Controlled.
"Jack," Jack says.
Orlo gestures to an empty bunk near the back. "That one's open. Top bunk. Nobody's claimed it yet."
Jack walks over, his shoes squeaking against the concrete floor.
He climbs onto the top bunk and sits, his back against the wall.
Orlo follows, leaning against the bunk frame below.
"You need anything, you let me know," Orlo says. "I've been here a few weeks. I know how things work."
Jack looks down at him. "What are you in for?"
Orlo shrugs. "Fraud. White-collar stuff. Boring, really. You?"
"RICO," Jack says.
Orlo whistles low. "Heavy. You got a good lawyer?"
"The best."
"That's good. You're gonna need it."
Orlo smiles again.
It's a friendly smile.
Too friendly.
Jack's instincts prickle.
Something's off.
But he can't put his finger on it.
Orlo pats the bunk frame. "Get some rest. Dinner's in a few hours. They bring it in on trays. It's shit, but it's food."
He walks back to his own bunk and picks up his book.
Jack lies down, staring at the ceiling.
The fluorescent lights flicker.
The man doing push-ups grunts with each rep.
The skinny guy near the toilet mutters to himself.
And Jack's mind races.
Fourteen men.
One toilet.
No privacy.
No power.
No control.
For the first time in years, Jack feels vulnerable.
***
The hours crawl by.
Dinner comes at six.
A guard slides trays through a slot in the door.
The men line up, grabbing their trays one by one.
Jack takes his and sits on his bunk.
The food is exactly what Orlo said it would be.
Shit.
A gray slab of something that might be meatloaf. Mashed potatoes that look like paste. Green beans that are more brown than green.
Jack eats it anyway.
He's hungry.
Orlo sits on the bunk below, eating slowly, methodically.
"So," Orlo says between bites. "How long you think you're in for?"
Jack shrugs. "Don't know yet. My lawyer's filing an appeal."
"That's good. Bail denied, huh?"
"Yeah."
"That's rough. You got people on the outside? Family? Friends?"
Jack's eyes narrow. "Why?"
Orlo holds up his hands. "Just making conversation, man. No offense."
Jack doesn't answer.
Orlo goes back to eating.
But Jack notices something.
Orlo's eyes flick toward the door. Then toward the guard station outside.
He's watching.
Timing something.
Across the pen, the two men playing cards stop.
One of them—a stocky guy with a scar across his cheek—glances at Orlo.
Orlo gives a barely perceptible nod.
The stocky guy goes back to his cards.
Jack's stomach tightens.
He finishes his food and sets the tray aside.
Then he lies back down, his eyes half-closed, pretending to rest.
***
At eight, the lights dim.
Not off. Just dim.
The men settle into their bunks.
Some sleep. Some talk quietly.
The skinny guy near the toilet is still muttering to himself.
Jack lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.
Orlo is on the bunk below.
Jack can hear him shifting. Adjusting his position.
Then, slowly, Orlo climbs up to the top bunk across from Jack.
He lies down, his head turned toward Jack.
"Can't sleep?" Orlo asks.
Jack doesn't answer.
Orlo chuckles. "Yeah, me neither. First few nights are always the hardest."
Jack's eyes flick toward him.
Orlo is lying on his side, his head propped up on one hand.
He's too close.
Too focused.
Jack's instincts scream.
Move.
Now.
But before Jack can react, two things happen simultaneously.
The stocky guy with the scar stands up from his bunk.
And the massive guy who was doing push-ups earlier rolls off his bunk and walks toward Jack.
Jack's heart pounds.
The stocky guy reaches Jack's bunk first.
He grabs Jack's left arm, pinning it to the mattress.
The massive guy grabs Jack's right arm.
Jack tries to pull free, but their grips are iron.
And then Orlo drops down from the bunk above.
He lands on the floor with barely a sound.
In his hand is a sharpened piece of metal—a sink edge, wrapped in cloth for grip.
Orlo's expression is calm. Almost serene.
"Nothing personal," he says.
He moves toward Jack, the blade glinting in the dim light.
Jack's mind races.
The sink.
The guard station.
The timing.
He saw it earlier. The guard skipped a cell check. Deliberately.
This is coordinated.
This is professional.
Jack's eyes flick to the sink in the corner.
Then to the sprinkler head on the ceiling.
One chance.
Jack slams his head forward, smashing his forehead into the stocky guy's nose.
The man yelps, his grip loosening.
Jack wrenches his left arm free and swings it hard, his elbow connecting with the massive guy's jaw.
The man stumbles back.
Orlo lunges forward, the blade aimed at Jack's chest.
Jack rolls off the bunk, hitting the floor hard.
Orlo's blade slashes through the air where Jack's chest had been a second earlier.
Jack scrambles to his feet, his eyes locked on the sink.
He sprints toward it.
Orlo is right behind him.
Jack grabs the metal faucet and wrenches it sideways with all his strength.
The pipe snaps.
Water sprays everywhere.
The sprinkler head above activates, drenching the entire pen.
Alarms blare.
The other inmates start shouting, scrambling off their bunks.
Orlo slips on the wet floor, his blade clattering to the ground.
Jack kicks it away.
Then he grabs Orlo by the collar and slams him against the wall.
"Who sent you?" Jack snarls.
Orlo smiles.
Blood drips from his lip.
"Tell Southside it's Crello now," he says. "Cage says the offer stands. Next time, you won't be so lucky."
The door slams open.
Guards flood in, batons drawn.
"On the ground! Everyone on the ground!"
Jack releases Orlo and drops to his knees, his hands behind his head.
The guards swarm the pen, shouting orders, restraining inmates.
One of them grabs Orlo, slamming him face-first into the floor.
Orlo doesn't resist.
He just keeps smiling.
As they drag him toward the door, he turns his head, his eyes locking on Jack's.
"Next time," he says.
And then he's gone.
***
Jack sits on the floor, water dripping from his hair, his jumpsuit soaked.
His heart is still pounding.
His hands are shaking..
The guards finish clearing the pen, hauling away the stocky guy and the massive guy along with Orlo.
The other inmates are moved to a different holding area.
Jack is left alone.
A guard stands in the doorway, watching him.
"You okay?" the guard asks.
Jack nods slowly. "Yeah."
The guard doesn't look convinced. "Medic's on the way. Just sit tight."
He closes the door.
Jack leans back against the wall, his chest heaving.
This is real.
This is fucking real.
For the first time in years, Jack feels it.
Fear.
Not the kind of fear that comes from a business deal gone wrong or a rival making a move.
This is primal.
Survival fear.
The kind that makes your hands shake and your stomach twist.
My money doesn't matter here.
My connections don't matter.
My empire doesn't matter.
In here, I'm just another body.
Just another target.
Jack closes his eyes, his mind racing.
Cage.
This was Cage.
He moved fast.
Too fast.
Jack's jaw clenches.
I need to get out.
I need to get out now.
***
The next morning, Calloway arrives.
Jack is moved to a small visitation room—a metal table, two chairs, a guard standing by the door.
Calloway looks exhausted.
His tie is loose. His hair is disheveled.
He sits down across from Jack, setting his briefcase on the table.
"Jesus Christ," Calloway says. "Are you okay? I heard about the attack."
Jack nods. "I'm fine."
"Fine? Jack, they tried to kill you."
"I know."
Calloway leans forward, his voice low. "This is serious. This is—this is beyond anything I've dealt with before. We need to get you out of here. Now."
Jack's eyes are cold. "Then do it."
"I'm trying. But the judge denied bail. The evidence—"
"I don't care about the evidence," Jack snaps. "I care about staying alive. You need to file an emergency motion. Cite the assassination attempt. Argue that I'm not safe in federal custody."
Calloway nods quickly. "I will. I'll file it today. But Jack, you need to understand—this could take time. The system doesn't move fast."
"Then make it move fast."
Calloway stands, gathering his briefcase.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he says. "Stay safe."
Jack doesn't answer.
Calloway leaves.
The guard escorts Jack back to a new holding pen—this one smaller, with only four other inmates.
Jack sits on his bunk, staring at the wall.
***
Across the city, in a penthouse overlooking the river, Cage sits in a leather chair, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
Then he takes a sip of his whiskey, staring out at the city lights.
Cage sets down his glass and picks up his phone.
He dials a number.
It rings twice.
"Yeah?" a voice answers.
"Try again," Cage says. "And this time, don't miss."
He hangs up.
And smiles.
Jack Morris.
The King of Southside.
Not for much longer.