The South Block of Blackwood Penitentiary didn't smell like the neighborhood. It didn't smell like motor oil, exhaust, or rain on hot asphalt. It smelled like industrial bleach, unwashed skin, and the metallic tang of a thousand caged men.
Dominic "Donny" Castello leaned his back against the chain-link fence, his prison blues ragged at the hems and cuffed at the wrists—the unofficial uniform of a man who still lived by the old code. To the prison, he was just an inmate. To the yard, he was The King.
"You're doing it again, Donny," a quiet voice muttered.
Giovanni "Johnny" Moretti stood a half-step behind him. Johnny was The Radar. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the guard towers and the shadows under the bleachers. He was the strategist who saw a threat three minutes before it arrived.
"Thinking about the sunsets?" Johnny asked.
Donny didn't answer. At exactly 5:00 PM, the light hit a specific corner of the yard just right, turning the razor wire into a jagged line of gold. It was the only place he could remember he had a soul.
On the other side of the yard, the North Block cast a long, cold shadow. Paulie Valenti stood there, leaning against a concrete pillar. Valenti was the King of the New City, a man who had watched the same sunsets as Donny only to figure out how to sell the view to the highest bidder. He was the one who had broken the code, selling out the block to rival families just to get Donny's seat.
Beside Valenti stood Artie Sterling, his version of a Radar. Artie didn't look like a street thug; he looked like a college kid, carrying a coldness that made even the older convicts nervous. He was Paulie's shadow, carrying out orders with zero emotion because to him, it was all "just business". He viewed Donny's crew as "trash" that needed to be cleared out.
"They're moving," Johnny whispered, his posture tensing.
Vince "The Viper" Greco stepped out from behind Artie. He was Valenti's Muscle, a man used only when a message needed to be sent in bone and blood. He was the one who had physically broken Donny once before to send a message to the block.
"Hold your ground," Donny commanded.
Louis "Big Lou" Marciano stepped out front. He was The Shield. Barrel-chested and wearing a permanent, defiant smirk, Louie was the oldest of the trio. He hated what Valenti had done to the neighborhood, viewing him as a man without honor. Louie stepped into the gap between his King and the Viper, his loyalty to Donny absolute. To him, Donny was the younger brother he had to protect.
"Hey, Viper!" Lou shouted, his voice echoing. "You still taking orders from a guy who tailors his prison blues? Or did Paulie finally give you permission to think for yourself?".
High in the tower, a sharp whistle cut through the tension.
Donny's head turned. Officer Sarah Miller stood at the rail. To the world, she was just a guard. To Donny, she was his soulmate. The whistle was The Signal—her way of warning him that a hit squad was coming or the Warden was starting a sweep.
The "No-Badge" silence was thick between them. Donny looked at her, his eyes hard to everyone else, but for a split second, she saw the dreamer inside. She adjusted her belt, her hand brushing the leather of her boot where a poem—a "Gold Letter"—was tucked away.
Valenti's crew was protected by Marcus Holden, their Legal Shield on the outside. Marcus ensured Valenti had the legal protection Donny never had, but he couldn't buy the honor of the South Block.
Donny looked back at the razor wire as the sun dipped below the wall.
"Stay gold, Johnny," Donny whispered. "The block might be concrete now, but we're still the ones standing on it".