Vale was dragged to the chapel. It wasn't a chapel anymore.

Crosses had been defaced. Broken pews stacked like bones.

Warden Cyrus Grayson—The Bishop—stood under the rusted crucifix.

"You like breaking men?" he asked.

"I like building better ones," Vale replied.

Grayson grinned. He handed Vale a tattered copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Pages were dog-eared and stained.

"You'll love the part where God dies."

Later that night, they drove spikes through Vale's palms with makeshift nails. Actual cafeteria knives. No anesthesia.

They nailed him to the floorboards of the chow hall. Inmates walked past like he was a discarded mannequin. Someone pissed on him.

Grayson gave a mock sermon over the PA system:

"Let him suffer for our sins, amen."

Vale lost consciousness. But Dante kept talking.

"Pain is a language. Learn its grammar."

When Vale woke up, he found himself in a new, grim reality. He could barely move, but his mind was sharp as ever. Dante's voice echoed in his thoughts, but now it had a new tone—a tone of urgency.

"Listen," Dante whispered, his voice the only thing that had remained constant. "There's a way out of this—if you're willing to pay the price."

It wasn't long before Vale understood what Dante meant. The prison had a kingpin: Vince "The Architect" Carver, a man who ran the black market, controlled information, and had his hands in everything from smuggling to silent coups. An older man with a calm demeanor, Vince operated from the shadows, pulling the strings while others did the dirty work. He was everything Vale had been taught to hate, yet something about him resonated with Vale.

Vince had watched Vale's rise. The whispers in the prison, the way Vale outsmarted the guards, the precision in his actions—it all fascinated him. He saw in Vale a potential ally, someone who could make him even more untouchable. He was also keenly aware of the strange bond Vale seemed to have with the voice in his head, but he never asked questions.

One day, after Vale had recovered enough to walk, Vince approached him in the yard, his hands behind his back, walking like a man who owned the entire prison.

"Need something to read?" Vince asked, handing Vale a bundle of worn-out books wrapped in dirty cloth. The Art of War, On Liberty, The Prince—these weren't ordinary prison books. These were weapons.

Vale raised an eyebrow. "What's the catch?"

"You've got a talent," Vince said. "I can give you more than books. I can give you access to the things you need—information, resources. But you're going to owe me. Every time you climb, I expect something in return. Do we have an understanding?"

Vale stared at Vince. "You expect me to do your dirty work."

Vince smiled. "Smart kid. But it's not just about doing work. It's about learning to build your empire. If you want out of here alive, you need to understand how the game works. And the game? Well, that's not just survival. It's control."

Over the next few weeks, Vince became more than a mentor. He provided Vale with books, teaching him not just about manipulation and strategy but about the power of control in all its forms. Vince's network of inmates and guards brought Vale more than just supplies—they brought him knowledge about the inner workings of the prison.

And as Vale absorbed every lesson, he felt the weight of the promises he had made to Dante and himself. Revenge was no longer just a goal; it was a blueprint. A plan. Every chess piece he moved, every favor he called in, was part of a larger game—one he would soon play with the same ruthlessness Vince had shown him.