RULE NUMBER ONE: DON'T MESS WITH MR. BURGESS

“What the hell are you looking at?” a bulky man demanded, a heavy frown glued to his face as he peered down at the man below.

Slayde Burgess didn’t answer. 

He stood tall, completely unbothered, with both hands shoved casually into the pockets of his grey prison trousers.

Around them, the prison yard was thick with tension. 

Dozens of other inmates in identical, worn-out grey uniforms had formed a tight circle, waiting in eager anticipation.

Slayde’s eyes drifted downward. 

There on the concrete floor sat a freshly washed, folded inmate uniform.

It was completely soaked through with dirty water.

Slayde looked back up, his face entirely calm. "Who wet my clothes?"

The large man scoffed, a dark, arrogant laugh ripping from his chest. 

He took a heavy step forward, planting his muddy boot directly onto the clean, wet fabric and grinding it into the dirt.

"I did," the bulky man sneered, leaning down to mock Slayde face-to-face. "What are you going to do about it, domestic boy?"

Slayde frowned slightly, more annoyed by the lack of hygiene than the threat.

He looked at the ruined uniform under the giant's boot, then back up. "Wash it."

The man blinked, completely caught off guard by the sheer lack of fear. 

He glanced back at the four heavy-set inmates flanking him, then turned back to Slayde, letting out a loud, mocking guffaw.

Slayde’s eyes calmly shifted past him, taking in the other four men, measuring their stances, their spacing, and their breathing in a fraction of a second. 

A cold, knowing smile barely touched his lips.

"Oh," Slayde murmured, his voice dangerously smooth. "It seems like you just transferred here. You and the others."

The bulky man’s face twisted in pure rage. 

He hated being looked down on, especially by a man whose hands were still tucked lazily into his pockets. 

"You arrogant piece of—"

The man threw a massive punch aimed directly at Slayde’s face.

Slayde didn't even shift his stance, nor did he take his hands out of his pockets. 

With blinding speed, he simply snapped his right leg straight up. 

His boot connected flush with the giant's jaw before the punch could even land.

The explosive force of the kick sent the man flying backward through the air.

CRASH.

The heavy inmate slammed violently into the concrete wall behind him, his eyes rolling back as he slumped to the floor, completely unconscious.

The yard went dead silent. 

The surrounding inmates gasped, staring in absolute horror at Slayde, who smoothly dropped his foot back to the ground.

Slayde drifted his grey eyes over the remaining four inmates. 

They were frozen, their mouths agape as they looked from the twitching body of their leader back to Slayde.

"So," Slayde murmured, taking a casual step forward.

The four men collectively flinched, shifting their weight backward in a sudden panic.

"Who stained my clothes?"

"We—it wasn't—" one scrambled to speak, his voice cracking.

"You're wasting my time," Slayde interrupted coldly.

Before the second man could stammer an excuse, Slayde’s leg snapped out again.

A brutal, low side-kick caught the man squarely in the knee.

Pop!

The man collapsed, screaming, clutching his shattered leg.

Slayde didn't pause. 

He pivoted slightly on his heel, his left foot rising in a fluid, high crescent kick that connected perfectly with the third inmate's temple. 

The man spun around and dropped like a stone, completely unresponsive.

The remaining two inmates scrambled backward so fast they almost tripped over each other, their faces pale with pure terror.

"I'll ask one last time," Slayde said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion as he closed the distance. "Who stained them?"

"We were moving around! Raging!" one of them finally shrieked, his hands raised in surrender, desperate to stop the incoming violence. "The water bucket fell over! It was an accident! It fell right on the uniform, and... and none of us wanted to pick it up. We just decided to use it as a rag to wipe the floor! Please, man!"

A cold, dangerous grin slowly cut across Slayde's face. 

"Is that so?" Slayde purred.

He stopped right in front of the inmate who had just confessed. 

The man was trembling so hard his prison uniform was shaking.

"Pick it up," Slayde commanded softly.

The inmate didn't hesitate. 

He dropped to his knees, his hands shaking violently as he scooped the muddy, soaked uniform off the concrete floor, holding it like a fragile piece of glass.

"Now, go wash it," Slayde instructed, pointing toward the laundry block. "And until it is completely clean, you are going to stand there and dry it. Hand-dry it. When it's pristine, you can leave. Understand?"

"Yes! Yes, completely!" the man gasped, nodding frantically. 

He scrambled to his feet, clutching the wet clothes to his chest, and sprinted toward the laundry room as if his life depended on it… because it did.

The yard remained dead silent as Slayde casually turned around, walking back toward his cell block, his hands returning to his pockets as if nothing had happened.

The last remaining transfer inmate, who had survived simply by staying dead quiet, watched Slayde’s retreating. 

Sweat poured down his face. 

He leaned over to a seasoned inmate standing nearby in the crowd, his voice a terrified whisper.

"Who... who the hell is that?"

The older inmate didn't take his eyes off Slayde. 

A grim, knowing look settled on his face.

"That's Slayde Burgess," the man replied, his voice low. "He was set up and thrown in here by the city elites. The guards, the warden... they don't even know how it was possible to trap a man like him. And honestly? Neither do we."

The older inmate turned his head slightly, giving the terrified transfer a hard, warning glare.

“If you want to survive your sentence,” the veteran whispered, his voice dead serious, “you keep your head down, you keep your mouth shut, and you do not cause Slayde Burgess any trouble. Ever.”

The transfer inmate nodded frantically, his throat dry as he watched the unconscious bodies of his crew being hauled off the concrete. 

He swallowed hard, completely terrified.

Meanwhile, Slayde continued walking down the narrow corridor toward the cell block, a deep frown settling on his face. 

He had intended to get changed into a fresh uniform before his next block rotation, and now he had to wait for some terrified grunt to hand-dry his clothes. 

The delay annoyed him more than the actual fight.

Suddenly, a trembling inmate emerged from the doorway ahead. 

The man stopped a few feet away, his chest heaving, completely pale. 

He swallowed hard, looking at Slayde as if he were standing in front of a firing squad.

“Mr. B-Burgess,” the inmate stammered, his chest heaving. “The Warden... the Warden is asking for you. In his private office. Right now.”

Slayde stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned around to face the messenger.

A cold, sharp look flashed across Slayde's face, his eyes narrowing into razor blades.

"Lead the way," Slayde said softly.