In the morning, Vale awoke caked in dried blood and saline. The sting of salt burned through the open gashes across his chest, a cruel reminder that pain had a way of turning the body into a canvas. His skin was raw, torn apart by the guards' "art," as they liked to call it.

Brine had been poured over the wound, seeping into his torn flesh, aggravating it until the wounds no longer bled but wept—leaving them open to infection, a subtle form of torture. A guard with a sick grin knelt beside him and muttered, "You'll heal crooked."

Another guard snapped a Polaroid and pinned it to the cafeteria board under a crooked sign: BEHAVIORAL CASES. Vale didn't care about the photo. He knew that in this place, your body was a property to be broken and rebuilt. But the soul? The soul was still his.

That night, the guards came for him again. The cell door slid open, and two of them entered, laughing in low, guttural tones. One of them dragged Vale to the center of the room, shoving him face-first into a bucket of dirty mop water. The cold liquid sloshed around his head, choking him, filling his lungs.

The other guard hovered over him, asking questions with malicious glee.

"What did it feel like killing your mother?"

Vale's head felt like it was being crushed by the weight of water and the weight of the question. The words hit harder than any punch they could throw. But he didn't flinch.

The guard pushed harder, whispering venomously, "How many pieces did you cut your father into?"

Vale's mind churned, flashing back to the blood-soaked nightmare of that night—the sharp, metallic scent of death, the crackle of bone under his hands. His hands trembled beneath the surface of the water, but he steeled himself.

"How long do you think before we do the same to you?" the other guard spat, his words like gravel.

Vale's throat was raw, but he didn't give in. He coughed and choked, expelling the water from his lungs before finally answering, "You're wasting water."

The silence that followed was thick with rage. The guards stepped back, fists clenched, but the look in Vale's eyes—calm, detached—infuriated them. The mocking indifference only earned him more.

They locked him in solitary confinement for a week.

The hole was a graveyard of the mind. No sounds. No light. No time. Just four walls closing in on him, threatening to swallow him whole.

In the stillness of that empty cell, Dante's voice came like an echo through the darkness.

"The mind is a fortress. But a fortress must have a map."

The words felt like a lifeline in the suffocating silence. Vale focused on the voice, grasping at it like a drowning man reaching for a rope. His body was bruised, broken, but his mind—his mind was a weapon.

Dante's teachings were grounded in reality, rooted in the same survival tactics used by POWs under extreme duress. He'd read about them, seen them in films—how soldiers would count backward from one hundred, imagining cold wind against their skin to slow their pulse. He'd seen it in anime, too, the calm demeanor of characters like Gintoki Sakata from Gintama or Levi Ackerman from Attack on Titan—men who remained steadfast even in the face of unimaginable pain.

"Count, Vale," Dante whispered, his voice sharp and unwavering. "Count backward from one hundred. Slow your heart. Make it stop."

Vale inhaled sharply, exhaling slowly, letting his thoughts settle like dust in the air. The pain throbbed in his chest, in his arms, but he pushed it aside.

"Ninety-nine… ninety-eight… ninety-seven…"

With every number, his pulse slowed. His body relaxed. The tension began to drain away, like the water from the mop bucket.

His mind, like a blank canvas, began to fill with the memory of his cell—the sharp scent of mildew, the constant hum of fluorescent lights above, the echo of his own breath as he adjusted to the darkness. His senses sharpened. He could feel the cool concrete beneath him, the slight shift in the air as the door would creak open every now and then. He mapped it all—every corner, every sound, every painful landmark.

"One hundred and one steps," Dante whispered.

Vale grinned, despite himself. His body was weak, but his mind was becoming something else. His eyes snapped open.

The darkness, the silence, no longer felt like an enemy. It was his ally now. And in the quiet, Vale began to see the way forward. He knew the guards' patterns, their weak points. He could feel the subtle shifts in their movements. He could anticipate their actions. The map of the prison was taking shape inside his mind, and with each passing day, the walls of his cell seemed less like a prison and more like a stepping stone.

In this place, survival was about more than strength. It was about control—over your body, your mind, and those around you. And Vale had learned, as Dante had taught him, that true control came from knowing the game better than anyone else.