My Unlimited Opulence System

Sixteen Hours To Freedom

Trench's grin widened into a grotesque, yellow-toothed sneer.

"So..." Trench purred, rolling his heavy shoulders until his neck joints popped with a sound like snapping dry kindling. "You really chose the wrong night to play hero, Wall Street."

Michael didn't flinch.

His eyes, cold and calculating, did a swift sweep of the room.

One directly in front. Three flanking left. Four cutting off the right aisle near the steam tables. Another six crowding behind them.

Fourteen men. All heavy-time felons, all looking for blood to break up the Tuesday night monotony of upstate winter prison life.

Behind him, the kid was practicallyHyperventilating, his voice cracking into a high-pitched sob. "I-I'm sorry... man, don't get hurt for me—"

Michael didn't turn around. "Stay down, kid," he said, his tone low and dangerously calm. "Keep your hands over your head."

Trench barked a laugh. "Touching. But ain't nobody leaving this mess hall on their own two feet."

Without a split-second of warning—

WHOOSH!

Trench’s right fist, thick as a sledgehammer, shot straight for Michael’s jaw.

Michael didn't pull back. Months of Krav Maga training at a private Manhattan gym—combined with six months of pure, raw survival instincts forged in county lockup—kicked in instantly. He slipped his head sharply to the left, letting the fist graze past his ear, and drove a vicious, short-range elbow right into Trench’s exposed floating ribs.

CRACK!

The sharp sound of breaking bone echoed through the sudden hush. Trench gasped, his face contorting in agony as he collapsed sideways over a nearby laminate table, taking a mountain of plastic trays down with him.

The roaring crowd in the mess hall froze. The noise dropped to a dead silence.

One of Trench’s crew, a wiry guy with spiderweb ink on his throat, lunged forward with a sharpened plastic shank.

Michael stepped into the attack rather than retreating. He deflected the inmate’s forearm with his left palm, grabbed the back of the guy's neck with his right, and drove his knee straight into the man's solar plexus.

The air blew out of the inmate's lungs with a sickening, wet choke. Michael swept his back leg out, slamming the man’s head hard against the concrete floor.

BANG!

Two more rushed him together.

Michael ducked low beneath a heavy steel tray swung like a broadsword, threw his shoulder straight into the chest of the guy on the right, and caught the second guy's extended wrist. He twisted the joint back with brutal, precise force until the bone snapped at the forearm.

A blood-curdling scream tore through the room.

For three seconds... the circle hesitatingly pulled back.

Nobody had expected the quiet corporate finance guy to move like a lethal machine.

Trench, clutching his fractured side and spitting blood onto the floor, screamed at the top of his lungs: "Stop looking at him! Kill the bitch! Kill him!"

The psychological dam broke. Everyone charged at once.

Michael blocked a wild left hook, ducked a kick, and smashed a right cross into an inmate's jaw, feeling teeth shatter beneath his knuckles. He drove a knee into another man’s sternum.

Three fell. Four fell.

But the sheer numbers were overwhelming.

A massive inmate grabbed Michael from behind in a suffocating bearhug, pinning his arms to his torso. Michael threw his head back violently, his skull slamming into the man's nose with a crunch, breaking the grip.

But before he could pivot—

BAM!

A heavy stainless-steel food tray smashed with terrifying force against the back of Michael's head.

Stars exploded in his vision. Warm blood instantly pooled through his hair, trickling down his neck into the collar of his jumpsuit.

A heavy boot struck his ribs. Then another.

The brawl dissolved into a chaotic, merciless mugging. One guy tackled him from the front, two slammed him from behind. An inmate seized a heavy wooden bench from the corner and swung it down across Michael's spine.

CRACK!

An agony like molten lead shattered across his vertebrae.

Michael fell hard onto his knees, his hands slapping the wet floor to catch himself. His lungs burned, completely starved of air.

Trench staggered forward, a grotesque, bloodied mask of fury. He drew his leg back like a field goal kicker and slammed his steel-toed work boot straight into Michael's exposed stomach.

BOOM!

The force sent Michael sliding ten feet across the slick floor, crashing violently against the cold cinderblock base of the security pillar.

The mess hall erupted into savage, primal roaring.

"Finish him!"

"Stomp him out!"

Michael tried to push himself up. His arms trembled violently, refusing to hold his weight. Blood poured down his forehead, dripping off his nose and splashing onto the white linoleum floor.

He managed to raise his chin.

Trench walked up, standing towering over him, his face twisted in vicious contempt. "You should’ve minded your own business, Wall Street."

Trench drew back his boot one last time.

CRUNCH!

The kick caught Michael squarely in the sternum. Ribs shattered instantly like dry twigs, driving into his lungs. The impact threw him hard against the wall before his limp body slithered down to the floor like a ragdoll.

His vision darkened around the edges. The roaring of four hundred men slowly faded into a dull, echoing hum.

The guards were finally blowing their whistles, running down the catwalks, but it was too late.

Michael could barely draw a breath. Every ragged gasp filled his chest with fluid and agony.

So... this is how it ends, he thought, the darkness closing in. After all the waiting... sixteen hours from freedom...

A single image flashed through his mind—his mother, waiting at the gates tomorrow morning in her faded winter coat, holding a thermos of coffee, watching the doors open for a son who would never walk out.

Mom... I'm sorry...

The darkness swallowed him whole. His heart gave one last, sluggish pulse, and stopped.

Then...

Out of the pitch-black silence of death, a cold, clear, synthetic voice resonated straight through his consciousness.

Detecting Host Vital Signs...

Critical Condition Confirmed.

Life Signs: 3%... Decreasing.

Deep inside the dark void, Michael's consciousness flickered. What...?

Compatibility Assessment Complete.

Host Identity Confirmed: Michael Joseph Roy.