Disgraced Heir Returns

7: CAGE

The stopping of the van had Damian lifting his head from where it lay crouched against his knee..

Damian heard the gates clang open. The metal screeched. The sound was sharp. Final. Like the closing of a tomb.

They pulled him out. The light was harsh. Fluorescent burning his eyes, and making him halt.

"Move."

A guard shoved him forward. His cuffed hands threw him off balance. He stumbled. Caught himself.

The processing was a blur. Fingerprints. Photos. A uniform that smelled like bleach and despair. A number stamped on his wrist. Inmate #73481.

But first, they made him walk through the cell block. Through the rows of cages. Still wearing his suit. The expensive navy fabric. The perfect cut. The silk tie.

The guards had planned it. Of course they had. They wanted to see him completely and totally humiliated, not only that, they were giving the other cellmates a signal that said. ‘Look here, your new toy, mess with him, however you want.’ Viktor's reach extended even here.

"Fresh meat," someone called out.

"Look at that suit. Used to be somebody."

"Not anymore."

Damian kept his head down. Kept walking. But he could feel their eyes on him. Hundreds of them. Hungry. Predatory.

Like sharks circling a bloody body.

He was a target. A walking target. The suit screamed wealth. Privilege. Everything these men hated.

"Rich boy."

"Think you're better than us?"

"Not for long."

The guards led him through the cell block slowly. Deliberately. Parading him like a trophy. Like they wanted him to be seen.

Damian's jaw was tight. His hands were shaking. But he refused to show fear. Refused to give them the satisfaction.

They finally stopped at a small room. A guard shoved him inside.

"Strip."

Damian blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. Strip. The suit comes off. You're not a CEO anymore. You're nothing."

Damian stared at the guard. The man's face was cold. Unfeeling.

Viktor's doing. All of it.

He stripped. The fabric fell away. His expensive clothes were replaced by grey prison wear. The material was rough. Itched against his skin. The pants were too short. The shirt was too big.

But it didn't hide the truth. Couldn't hide it.

He was still the same man. Still carried himself the same way. Still had the same eyes.

The guards noticed, making them scoff at him, hitting him with their baton, as if to humble him. The inmates noticed.

They see it. They know I'm different. They know I used to have power.

They're going to try to take it from me.

______

The cell was small. Concrete walls. A metal bunk. A toilet. No privacy. No dignity.

The door slammed shut.

"Lights out in ten minutes," the guard said. "Try not to cause any trouble, Cross."

The guard walked away. His footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Damian sat on the bunk. His hands were shaking. His breathing was shallow.

This is it. This is where I die.

He pushed the thought away. Forced himself to think about something else. Anything else.

But there was nothing else. Just the walls. Just the bars. Just the silence.

______

He didn't sleep.

The night was filled with sounds. Whispers. Footsteps. The occasional scream from somewhere down the block. The clang of metal. The hum of the lights.

Damian lay on the bunk. His eyes were open. His body was tense.

Stay alert. Stay alive.

His cellmate was a man named Cutter. He was huge. Muscular. Covered in tattoos. His eyes were dead. Empty.

"You're Cross," Cutter said. It wasn't a question. "The tech guy. The one who stole all that money."

Damian didn't answer.

Cutter laughed. It was a low sound. Dangerous. "Don't worry, pretty boy. You won't last long enough to spend it."

Damian's jaw tightened. But he said nothing.

The night dragged on.

_____

The next morning, they let him out for breakfast.

The cafeteria was a nightmare. Hundreds of inmates. All of them staring. All of them hungry.

Damian got his tray. Found a table in the corner. Kept his head down.

A man sat across from him. He was small. Wiry. His eyes were too bright.

"You're Cross," the man said. His voice was a whisper. "Victor sends his regards."

Damian's blood went cold.

"What did you say?"

The man smiled. His teeth were yellow. Cracked. "Viktor Hartwell. He says hello. He says... enjoy your stay."

The man stood up. Walked away.

Damian stared at his tray. His appetite was gone.

Viktor. Even here. Even now. He's still controlling everything. Still letting me know he is in charge.

He looked around the cafeteria. Every face was a threat. Every shadow held a knife.

I'm not going to survive this. Not like this. Not alone.

______

The attack came on the third day.

Damian was in the shower. The water was cold. The tiles were cracked. He was soaping his face when he heard the footsteps.

Three of them. Big. Hard. Their faces were hidden in the steam.

"Well, well. Look who it is. The rich boy."

Damian turned. His back hit the wall. "What do you want?"

The man in the middle smiled. His teeth were filed to points. "Viktor says hi. He says we should give you a proper welcome."

Damian's heart stopped.

"Viktor Hartwell sent you?"

"We all work for him, pretty boy. Even in here. Especially in here."

The man lunged.

Damian dodged. But there were three of them. They were too fast. Too strong.

The first punch landed. His head snapped back. Blood filled his mouth.

The second punch hit his ribs. He heard something crack.

He fell. The water was cold against his face. The tiles were hard. Rough.

The men were on him. Kicking. Punching. Laughing.

"Not so tough now, are you?"

"Rich boy. Thought you could buy your way out of anything."

"Viktor says to make it slow. Real slow."

Damian curled into a ball. His arms over his head. His body screaming in pain.

This is it. This is how I die.

The kicks kept coming. His vision was blurring. His ears were ringing.

I'm going to die in this shower. I'm going to die alone. Forgotten.

But then something shifted.

A voice in his head. Not his own. Older. Harder.

You can’t give up now.

Damian's eyes snapped open.

You're not done yet.

He saw the man's foot coming toward his face. He caught it. Pushed it away. Hard.

The man stumbled. Fell.

Damian scrambled to his feet. His body was screaming. His ribs were on fire. But he was standing.

"Get him!" the man shouted.

They came at him again. But this time, Damian was ready.

He swung. His fist connected with someone's jaw. He heard bone crack. He swung again. And again.

He was fighting with everything he had. Every ounce of anger. Every shred of pain.

"I'm not going to die here!" he screamed. His voice was raw. Animalistic. "Do you hear me? I'm not going to die!"

The fight was over in minutes.

Damian stood over the three men. They were on the ground. Groaning. Bleeding.

He was bleeding too. His ribs were broken. His face was swollen. But he was alive.

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Covered in blood.

My blood? Their blood? I can't tell.

The guards rushed in. They pulled him away. Shouting things he couldn’t hear as they brought him to his knees with a strike of their baton. His ears were still ringing as they dragged him away from the shower – Naked. They put him in solitary confinement, throwing his grey prison wear that was now cold in his direction, ordering him to dress.

The cell was smaller than the first one. Dark. Cold. No windows.

Damian sat on the floor. His back against the wall. His body was screaming. But his mind was clear.

Viktor sent them. Victor tried to kill me.

And I survived.

I survived.

He laughed. It was a broken sound. Hollow. But it was laughter.

Viktor Hartwell. You think you can break me? You think you can kill me?

You're wrong.

I'm going to get out of here. And I'm going to destroy you.

---

He stayed in solitary for a week.

The days blurred together. No light. No sound. Just darkness and silence.

But Damian didn't break. He used the time to think. To plan. To remember.

______

The guards came for him on the eighth day.

They escorted him back to general population. The inmates watched him. Their eyes were different now. Cautious. Respectful.

Damian walked through the cafeteria. His head was high. His shoulders were back. He wasn't the same man who had arrived a week ago. He was harder. Colder. More dangerous.

Cutter was at his table. The huge man with the dead eyes.

"Cross," Cutter said. His voice was flat. "I heard about the shower."

Damian sat down. "I'm sure you did."

"Those men. Once they make you their target. They don't usually miss."

Damian looked at him. His eyes were cold. Unblinking. "They missed."

Cutter studied him for a moment. Then he laughed. It was a deep sound. Almost approving.

"Maybe you're not as weak as you look, pretty boy."

Damian didn't respond. He just stared at his tray.

I'm not weak. Not anymore.

Viktor Hartwell is going to find that out. Soon.