# Chapter 1: The Iron Door
The words on the datapad were a sterile, clinical insult. *Cause of death: Asphyxiation by hanging. Ruling: Suicide.* Barrett Kane's thumb hovered over the glowing screen, the light casting a sickly pallor on his face. He could feel the cheap plastic frame of the photo in his other hand, the edges digging into his palm. In the picture, two boys grinned at a camera held too low, their faces sun-kissed and full of a future that had been stolen. Liam, his younger brother, with that lopsided smile that could charm a loan shark, and himself, arm slung around Liam's shoulders, the protector. A lie, then and now. He hadn't protected him. The official report was a fabrication, a neat, tidy lie to close a file on a life that had been violently extinguished inside the brutalist monolith of Blackstone Penitentiary. Liam wouldn't have. He wouldn't have left a note, wouldn't have given up. Barrett knew it in his bones, in the hollow ache that had replaced his guts since the day the cold-faced officials had delivered the news.
He forced his fingers to unclench, the photograph crinkling under the pressure. With a deep, shuddering breath that tasted of salt and resolve, he tucked the picture into the inner pocket of his new uniform shirt, right over his heart. The fabric felt stiff, synthetic, like a costume. A costume for a role he was born to play, not by choice, but by blood. He was no longer Barrett Kane, civilian. He was Correctional Officer Kane, a ghost walking into a haunted house to hunt the thing that had killed his brother. The ferry's horn blared, a mournful, fog-drenched sound that vibrated through the deck. Through the mist, a jagged silhouette of concrete and steel emerged from the gray water: Blackstone Island. It looked less like a prison and more like a tomb, a place where things were buried and forgotten. The ferry docked with a groan of metal on metal, and the heavy iron gate of the main entrance began to grind open, promising not entry, but consumption.
The air that hit him as he stepped onto the island was thick and heavy, tasting of ozone, damp concrete, and something else… something acrid and metallic, like old blood. It was the scent of despair, recycled and pumped through the ventilation system of a place designed to crush the human spirit. The prison itself was a fortress of geometric despair, a series of interlocking concrete cubes and rusted catwalks that clawed at the perpetually overcast sky. Guard towers, like stoic, unblinking eyes, surveyed the grounds. Barrett followed the stream of new hires through a series of clanging doors and echoing corridors, his footsteps sounding loud and uncertain in the oppressive silence. He was an outsider, a fraud, and he felt the weight of a thousand unseen gazes upon him.
Orientation was a bureaucratic blur conducted in a windowless room bathed in the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. A senior guard named Rizzo, a man whose face was a roadmap of cynical boredom, led the session. He was broad, with a gut that strained the buttons of his uniform and eyes that had seen everything and cared about none of it. "Rule one," Rizzo said, his voice a flat monotone, "what happens on the inside, stays on the inside. You see nothing, you hear nothing. Your job is to walk the beat, count the heads, and collect your paycheck. You try to be a hero, you'll end up in an unmarked grave on the far side of the island. No one will ask questions." He paused, letting the threat settle in the air like dust. "Rule two: learn the pecking order. And I don't mean the one in the rulebook." He gestured vaguely with a thick thumb. "Some of these convicts… they're more important than you. More powerful. You see a guy with a special ink, you give him a wide berth. You don't look at him, you don't talk to him. You just let him be. Understand?"
Barrett gave a curt nod, his jaw tight. He understood perfectly. He was being told to look the other way, to be complicit. His gaze swept across the room, noting the other new recruits—some green and nervous, others with the same hard, empty look as Rizzo. Then he saw them. Inmates being escorted through a secured corridor beyond the glass partition. Most were just men in jumpsuits, but a few… a few had something else. On the back of a hand, the side of a neck, a faint, almost subliminal tattoo. Not the crude gang tags he'd expected, but something more intricate, like a circuit board of light etched into their skin. One man, a mountain of muscle with a shaved head, had a faint, silvery sigil on his temple that seemed to catch the light and hold it. The guards escorting him didn't meet his eyes. They deferred, their posture subtly respectful. This was the real power structure Rizzo was talking about, a hidden hierarchy that ran parallel to the official one. Barrett felt a cold knot of dread and fury tighten in his stomach. This was the world that had chewed up his brother and spat out a lie.
After the mind-numbing recitation of regulations, Rizzo finally got to the assignments. "Kane," he grunted, not even looking up from his datapad. "You're on Block A. Night patrol. Your partner's waiting by the elevators. Try not to get him killed." The dismissal was absolute. Barrett stood, the fabric of his uniform still feeling alien, and walked out of the room. The corridors of Blackstone were a labyrinth of poured concrete and steel mesh, the air growing colder with every step. He found the designated bank of elevators, a cage of steel and scuffed plexiglass. A guard with a weary, pinched face stood leaning against the wall, his name tag reading 'Miller'. Miller looked Barrett up and down, a flicker of something—pity, maybe—in his eyes. "Fresh meat," he muttered, pushing off the wall. "Rizzo give you the speech?"
"Something like that," Barrett replied, his voice low.
"Yeah, well, forget half of it. The other half will get you killed anyway." Miller stabbed the call button with a knuckle. The elevator arrived with a groan, the doors sliding open to reveal a car that smelled of stale sweat and disinfectant. They stepped inside, and the doors slid shut, plunging them into a humming ascent. "Block A's quiet. Mostly. Just keep your head down and your eyes open."
The elevator doors opened onto a gallery that overlooked a multi-tiered cell block. The noise hit him first: a cacophony of shouts, coughs, and the low, constant hum of despair. It was a vertical hive of suffering, each cell a small, glowing cube in the gloom. Miller led the way onto the walkway, the steel grille flooring clanging under their boots. "We start on the top tier and work our way down. Count the bodies, make sure no one's trying to hang themselves with their bedsheets." Miller's tone was grimly matter-of-fact. The phrase hung in the air, a barb aimed directly at Barrett. He knew. They all knew. This was a test.
Barrett's eyes scanned the cells, his gaze methodical, detached. He was looking for a face, a name, anything that connected to Liam. But every face was a mask of hostility or vacancy. Then, as they passed a particular cell on the third tier, he felt it. A pull, a sudden, sharp focus. He stopped, his gaze locking with the occupant of the cell. The man was sitting on his bunk, leaning against the wall, seemingly at ease. He wasn't particularly large, but he had a wiry, coiled strength, like a panther at rest. His hair was dark, shorn close to the scalp, and his eyes… his eyes were ancient and knowing. He was one of the ones with a Mark, a faint, dark outline of a coiled snake wrapped around his wrist, visible as he rested his hands on his knees. The inmate, Eirik, watched him not with aggression, but with a strange, piercing clarity. He looked right through Barrett's uniform, through the facade of Correctional Officer Kane, and saw the raw, grieving brother beneath. There was no pity in his gaze, but a deep, unnerving understanding. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a curve that was both a welcome and a warning. He knew why Barrett was here.
"Move it, rookie," Miller grunted, tapping him on the shoulder.
Barrett tore his eyes away, his heart hammering against his ribs. The encounter lasted no more than three seconds, but it felt like an eternity. He had been seen. His secret, the very core of his being, had been perceived by a man he was supposed to be guarding. A man who was, by all accounts, at the bottom of this hellish food chain. Yet in that single look, Eirik held all the power. He was a ghost in the machine, and he had just identified another. The iron door of Blackstone had not just closed behind Barrett; it had locked, and on the other side, someone was waiting.