Then came solitary.

No light. No voice. No Dante.

Just pain. And shame.He'd gambled—and lost.

THE FINAL BEAT BEFORE VINCE

Time passed. Vale lost track.

His body slumped forward, bones screaming under their own weight. Every breath was a battle. Every thought was a war.

Then—A tremor. Not in his mind. In the walls.

BOOM.

Something heavy falls.

SCREAMING.

Metal shrieking. Alarms wailing. Then—a crack of bone. And silence. A silence so complete it could choke.

Footsteps.Heavy. Measured. Familiar.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

"Who…?" Vale croaked, voice like sandpaper dragged across glass.

A shadow crouched before him. A face stepped into the flickering light, bruised, dusted with blood—but smiling.

Vince.

No words at first. Just hands, strong and sure, snapping shackles like string. Blood from a guard dripped down his knuckles.

He caught Vale's limp body before it hit the ground.

"You stupid bastard," Vince muttered, voice rough. "You weren't supposed to get caught."

Vale blinked slowly. His lips barely moved.

"Why are you here? You said… stay out of your way…"

Vince chuckled, low and dangerous. "Yeah, I said that. Back when I didn't know if you were worth the risk. So I tested you."

"And?" Vale spat blood, too tired to lift his head.

Vince met his eyes. The Kingpin's gaze was storm-dark.

"You passed."

Then came the sound: more guards collapsing. Screams in the hallway. Vince had come alone—and it was enough.

He pulled Vale up, one arm behind his back.

"I ain't your brother," Vince growled. "But I'm the next damn thing. And nobody—nobody—touches what's mine."

A pause.

The hallway outside flickered with broken lights. Bodies lined the floor. Behind them, Marlow's body slumped against a wall—breathing, barely. Beaten. Broken. Left alive on purpose.

"You ready to burn this place to the ground?" Vince asked.

Vale smiled. Blood in his teeth.

"Light the match." 

Inmate stories start with a whisper:

"You hear how the Kingpin got in?"

They all get it wrong. Some say he tunneled in through the sewers. Others say he bribed the warden. But the truth?

He walked in through the front gate—wearing a stolen guard's uniform and a look like God had given up on mercy.

No backup. No guns. Just a black duffel bag with tools, chains, and a broken lighter.

The real war began when Vince let himself get caught.

Security thought they had him.

They surrounded him.

Seven guards. Tact team. Shields. Tasers.

He dropped the duffel. Raised his hands.

"I surrender," he said. "Just one condition."

They laughed.

"What?"

Vince smiled.

"Let me talk to Marlow."

The lights flickered.

Then the screams started.

It wasn't a fight.

It was a demolition.

No wasted motion. No mercy. Just bodies dropping like puppets with cut strings.

Knuckles to temple. Elbows to throat.

He didn't kill. He didn't need to.

Vince left them breathing so they could remember.

By the time he reached Cellblock E, his uniform was soaked with blood—not his.

The steel door stood between him and the devil in charge.

He kicked it once.

Boom.

It buckled.

Twice.

BOOM.

It snapped open like paper.

Marlow stood calmly. Still dressed in black leather. Eyes sharp. Hands behind his back.

"You think violence is enough to beat me?" he asked, voice flat.

Vince didn't speak.

He closed the door behind him.

Locked it.

"Violence," Vince said, cracking his neck, "is just the hello."

Marlow struck first.

He was fast. Unnaturally fast.

A blur. Blade out. Slash to Vince's ribs—deep, clean.

Blood sprayed the walls.

But Vince didn't move.

He took the pain like it was a handshake.

"You done?" he asked.

Then he moved.

Like a freight train made of muscle and wrath.

First punch—shattered Marlow's elbow. Bone tore through skin.

Marlow screamed—too late.

Second punch—right knee dislocated with a crack so loud, the cameras picked it up over the alarm.

Vince didn't let him fall.

He grabbed him by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the reinforced glass.

Spit. Blood. Shards flying.

Marlow fought back. Dirty. Smart.

Eye gouge. Groin strike. Boot knife.

Vince took it all.

Then headbutted him so hard a tooth shot across the room like a bullet.

"You were trained," Vince snarled, breathing through blood. "I was forged."

Marlow staggered, grabbing a shock baton from his belt.

Crack!

Electricity arced toward Vince's chest.

But Vince caught the baton mid-swing.

Held it.

Turned it.

And jammed it into Marlow's gut.

The electricity surged—but this time, it burned Marlow.

His screams echoed like music down the cellblock.

Uniform smoking. Eyes wide.

Vince didn't blink.

Vince dropped the baton.

Kneeled beside the twitching, broken man.

Grabbed his bloody jaw. Forced his gaze upward.

Toward the camera feed.

"You see that boy you broke? The quiet one with the dead eyes?"

He flipped the monitor.

Vale—still chained, face mangled, but alive. Watching.

"You didn't break him," Vince said, whispering like a storm. "You trained him."

"And I'm here to collect the debt."

He didn't kill Marlow.

He left him broken. Breathless. Ashamed.

"Wake up every night remembering this," Vince said, standing over him. "That I spared you."

He looked into the camera one last time.

"And he won't."

The guards who tried to stop him were still unconscious.

Marlow? Left alive, his arms shattered, his legs twitching, mouth filled with broken teeth and silence.

He never walked straight again.

Never spoke the same way.

And never looked at a camera without pissing himself.