The air in the South Block didn't circulate; it just sat there, heavy with the sterile sting of industrial bleach and the low, vibrating anxiety of five hundred men who had forgotten the taste of fresh air.
Donny Castello lay motionless on his cot, his heart hammering against the "Gold Letter" Sarah had pressed into his palm earlier that day. It felt like a hot coal against his skin, a burning reminder of everything he was forbidden to have. He didn't dare open it.
In Blackwood, "Staying Gold" wasn't a poetic sentiment; it was a desperate survival strategy. It was the mental anchor that allowed him to cling to the memory of Sunday dinners, the smell of burnt motor oil on the old block, and the honor he had carried before the gates slammed shut. To lose that was to become "Lead"—heavy, dull, and entirely reactive to the gravity of a cold, indifferent system.
But gold is a soft metal. It marks under the slightest pressure, and Marcus Holden knew exactly where the soft spots were.
The cell door didn't just open; it groaned, the heavy steel sliding back with a shriek that set Donny's teeth on edge. Artie Sterling stepped into the dim light, his face as smooth and emotionless as a marble headstone. Behind him, the Viper loomed, a jagged shadow that seemed to drink the meager light of the tier.
"The Warden found Officer Miller's report a little light on details, Donny," Artie said, his voice a clinical whisper. "He thinks she's hiding something. And Paulie? Paulie thinks you've mistaken this cage for a confessional."
Before Donny could even draw a breath to respond, the Viper lunged. He didn't go for the face this time; he wanted something more lasting than a bruise. He seized Donny's right arm—his writing hand—and wrenched it behind his back. Vince didn't stop at the point of tension. He drove his knee into the center of Donny's spine and pulled the arm upward with a sudden, violent jerk.
A sickening, wet pop echoed in the small space as the humerus slid forward, tearing through the muscle and out of the shoulder socket. Donny's world turned white, a silent scream caught in his throat. But the Viper wasn't done. He pinned Donny's hand flat against the concrete floor, splaying the fingers with a cruel, steady pressure.
"Did you break the silence, Donny?" Artie asked, crouching down. "Did you tell the lady in the tower about our business?"
"I... fell," Donny choked out, his forehead slick with cold sweat, the word a ragged ghost of defiance.
Artie signaled with a slight nod. The Viper reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy industrial bolt. He placed the steel over the back of Donny's knuckles and brought his other fist down like a sledgehammer. The sound of the bone snapping was hollow and sharp, like dry wood breaking underwater.
Immediately, the South Block erupted. It started with Lou, whose roar of pure, unadulterated rage shook the very bars of the next cell. "You coward! Touch him again and I'll tear your heart out, Greco!" Lou screamed, his massive fists hammering against the steel until the entire tier vibrated. The sound was picked up by every man loyal to the Old Block. Metal cups rattled against bars, and boots stomped in a deafening, primal rhythm. They were a choir of the damned, screaming in helpless outrage as their leader was dismantled in the dark.
"That's for the letters," the Viper hissed into Donny's ear, ignoring the chaos. "If she finds out what we're doing, we don't come for you. We wait for her in the parking lot."