Vale stopped reacting to pain. He began observing it.

Grayson, the sadistic warden, ordered a public beating to remind the prisoners of their place. Vale didn't scream like the others. He didn't flinch or beg for mercy. Instead, he catalogued the angles. Where did the fists land? Which guards favored which tools? How did the prisoners react? His mind worked like a scientist collecting data, each bruise, each drop of blood, a clue in the puzzle of survival. He wasn't just a victim anymore—he was learning, adapting.

Dante's voice was a constant guide, a steady hand in his mind. "Don't resist. Translate."

Vale translated suffering into strategy. He realized that every act of violence had its own rhythm—a sequence. Every blow had its moment, every scream its timing. Anticipate the rhythm, and you could control the chaos. He practiced this, observing, listening, learning. He knew that survival wasn't just about endurance. It was about understanding the rhythm of violence and using it to your advantage.

After the beating, Vale began testing psychological tricks on his fellow inmates. He borrowed cues from Machiavelli, from social conditioning manuals that Vince, a fellow inmate with ties to the outside world, had slipped through the laundry system. The texts were filled with manipulative tactics and strategies for exerting influence. Vale devoured them, using their lessons to mold himself into something more dangerous than any of the guards or inmates could understand.

One day, Vale decided to test the power of influence. He stole another inmate's food but framed someone else for it. The chaos that ensued was a thing of beauty. Fists flew, insults echoed in the cold, gray hallways, and Vale stood in the middle of it all, the calm eye in the storm. He'd timed the guard arrival to the second, knowing exactly when to act. His manipulation was surgical. The prisoners fought, and the guards were too late to stop it.

Vale didn't speak much during these days. He began to speak only in questions, Socratic style, twisting minds with simple words that sowed seeds of doubt.

"Are you sure that's what you saw?"

"Why would I steal from you if I eat better than you?"

"Maybe the real thief wants us to fight."

Each question was a carefully crafted psychological trap. Paranoia seeped into the air, thickening it like fog. And paranoia was leverage. The other prisoners started second-guessing themselves. They turned on each other. The chaos grew.

Vince noticed. "You're building not just muscle, kid. You're building mythology."

Vale's reputation shifted. He was no longer the weak, broken boy who'd been thrown into this hellhole. He was becoming something more—something that even the most dangerous men feared to cross. From victim to specter, Vale was building a legend, one psychological trick at a time.

But the true test of Vale's transformation came on his eighteenth birthday.

The guards, in their twisted sense of humor, celebrated Vale's coming of age in the only way they knew—by dehumanizing him further. They stripped him naked, shackled him to the freezing concrete of the prison yard, and drenched him in pig's blood. The thick, rancid liquid slithered down his skin, pooling beneath him like a grotesque offering. The stench clawed at his throat, the foul odor nearly suffocating him.

But Vale didn't flinch. He didn't move. Didn't react.

Warden Grayson, standing over him like a dark god, smiled. The boots that splashed in the blood as he approached Vale's shivering form were a mockery of all that Vale had become. Grayson traced a cross over Vale's chest with his finger, smearing the blood like paint on a canvas.

"Happy birthday, Devil," Grayson hissed. His voice was a serpent's whisper.

"A lamb once slaughtered must become the wolf."

Vale's body trembled—not from fear, not from disgust, but from something far deeper. A molten fury burned inside him. The blood on his skin was not just a stain—it was a fuel. Every drop, every sneer, every moment of humiliation only made him stronger.

He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with the guard filming the entire spectacle. His expression was cold, unreadable. No fear. No plea. Just a promise.

"Make it a mural," Vale said, his voice colder than the steel around his wrists.

Grayson's smile faltered, but he didn't care. The pictures would go up on the prison walls the next day, his blood-streaked face immortalized like a twisted masterpiece. Vale's suffering would be on display for everyone to see.

The next morning, the photos were plastered across the prison walls. His bloodied face, his shackled form, the helplessness that the guards thought they had forced upon him—it was all there, for everyone to see. But Vale didn't feel humiliation. He felt something else. He felt the weight of every soul who had wronged him.

His family's killers. The men who had framed him. The guards who had tortured him. They would all drown in the same blood they'd spilled.

Dante's whisper echoed in his mind: "This world baptizes monsters in blood, not water."

Vale stood before the mural, his eyes taking in every detail of the photos. There was no shame, no sorrow. Just an understanding. The revenge would begin here, in the darkness of this place. The moment they touched him, the moment they thought they could break him, was the moment they sealed their fate.

Vale's mind raced, calculating every move, every psychological leverage he could use. They had given him this baptism, but it would be their undoing. They would pay for every drop of blood.

And Vale would be the one to make them regret the day they ever touched him.