2025-12-22 21:59:45The back of the police cruiser smelled like old vinyl, stale coffee, and something faintly metallic, maybe blood from previous passengers. Bradley sat with his hands cuffed behind him, the metal biting into his wrists every time the car hit a pothole. The two officers up front spoke in low murmurs, occasionally glancing at him in the rearview mirror. One was young, fresh-faced, almost apologetic. The older one had the weary eyes of someone who’d seen too many domestic calls in neighborhoods like the Upper East Side.
Bradley stared out the window as Manhattan blurred past holiday lights strung across brownstones, doormen hailing cabs, couples in wool coats hurrying toward restaurants. Normal life. A world he’d been part of, but never really belonged to.
His mind replayed the scene in the foyer: Victoria’s cold triumph, Leo’s smug grin despite the bruises, and Evelyn… Evelyn turning away. That fleeting look of relief on her face haunted him more than the cuffs. He’d caught it just before the officers blocked his view. Relief. As if a weight had been lifted.
The cruiser turned south toward Centre Street, the Manhattan Detention Complex looming in his thoughts. But the older officer spoke up suddenly.
“Change of plans. We’re heading to the 19th Precinct first for booking.”
The young one nodded. “Captain wants to handle this one personally.”
Bradley’s stomach tightened. The 19th Precinct covered the Upper East Side. Victoria’s “friends” in high places. This wasn’t standard procedure.
They pulled up to the precinct on East 67th Street twenty minutes later. The building was lit harshly under floodlights, a cluster of reporters already gathered near the entrance, someone had tipped them off. Cameras flashed as the officers hauled Bradley out of the car.
“Mr. Turner! Is it true you assaulted Leo Jordan?”
“Sources say this is a domestic dispute gone violent. Any comment?”
Bradley kept his head down, saying nothing as they marched him inside. The flashes burned into his retinas even after the doors closed behind him.
Inside, the precinct buzzed with late-shift energy. Officers glanced up curiously as he was led past the front desk toward booking. A sergeant with a mustache waved them through without the usual paperwork delay.
“Captain’s office wants him first,” the older officer muttered.
They deposited Bradley in a small interrogation room of gray walls, metal table bolted to the floor, one-way mirror. The cuffs were removed, but his wrists throbbed. He rubbed them absently, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Dirt-streaked face, dried blood on his cheek, eyes harder than he remembered.
The door opened after ten minutes. A man in a crisp suit entered, tie knotted perfectly. Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, the kind of face that smiled easily in fundraising photos.
“Mr. Turner,” he said, extending a hand as if this were a business meeting. “Captain Harlan Reed. I oversee major cases in this district.”
Bradley didn’t shake. “Where are my rights being read? My phone call?”
Reed smiled thinly, sitting across from him. “All in good time. The Jordans are prominent citizens. We just want to make sure we have the facts straight before processing.”
Reed opened a folder, sliding out close-ups photos of Leo’s bruised face, taken professionally with good lighting. “These are severe injuries. Broken orbital bone, fractured ribs, possible internal bleeding. Mr. Jordan says you attacked him unprovoked in the family garden.”
Bradley leaned forward. “He attacked me first. He’s been doing it for years. Today I only tend to defend myself.”
Reed nodded sympathetically. “I understand tensions run high in family situations. But we have statements from Mrs. Victoria Jordan and Mrs. Evelyn Turner corroborating Leo’s version. No witnesses on your side.”
Evelyn. She’d given a statement against him.
The betrayal hit like a fresh punch. He’d expected Victoria and Leo to lie. But Evelyn?
Reed continued. “We’re prepared to charge you with assault in the second degree. That’s a Class D felony, up to seven years.”
Bradley’s voice was steady. “I want a lawyer.”
“Of course.” Reed stood. “But here’s the thing, Mr. Turner. The Jordans are willing to be lenient. If you agree to a plea, no contest, time served plus probation, and a permanent restraining order, they’ll drop it to misdemeanor. You walk tonight. Sign divorce papers quietly, stay away from the family. Everyone moves on.”
Bradley stared at him. “And if I don’t?”
Reed’s smile faded. “Then we proceed with the felony. Bail will be set high to half a million, maybe more. Given your lack of assets and ties to a prominent family claiming fear, flight risk. You’ll sit in Rikers until trial. Months, at least.”
He let that sink in.
“Think about your daughter, Mr. Turner. Maya, isn’t it? She’s seven. Do you want her visiting you behind glass?”
The mention of Maya’s name felt like a violation. Bradley’s hands clenched under the table.
“I want my phone call,” he repeated.
Reed sighed, standing. “Suit yourself.”
He left with the door locking behind him.
Another hour passed before they finally allowed the call. Bradley was led to a payphone in the hallway, collect call only. He dialed the one number he knew by heart: his old friend Marcus from auto shop days, now a mechanic in Queens.
Marcus answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“It’s Bradley. I’ve been arrested.”
A long pause. “Jesus, man. What happened?”
Bradley gave him the short version. “I need you to get a message to Maya. Tell her Daddy loves her and I’ll be home soon. And… see if you can find a criminal lawyer who does pro bono. I don’t have money.”
“I’ll try,” Marcus said. “But Brad, the news is already running it. ‘Son-in-law of prominent Jordan family arrested for brutal assault.’ They’re painting you as the bad guy.”
Bradley closed his eyes. “I know.”
They processed him after that call, fingerprints, mugshot, the humiliating strip search. His clothes were taken, replaced with an orange jumpsuit that smelled of bleach. By midnight, he was in a holding cell with half a dozen other men, drunk drivers, petty thieves, one guy muttering to himself in the corner.
He sat on the bench, head in his hands, replaying every moment. Evelyn’s relief. Her statement against him. The plea deal that would separate him from Maya forever.
He thought of Maya upstairs in her room, drawing unicorns. Would they even let her visit? Or would Victoria spin it so she feared him?
Sleep didn’t come. At dawn, they transferred him to Rikers Island.
The bus ride was grim with caged windows, chained to the seat, the other inmates silent or boasting. Rikers rose out of the East River like a concrete fortress, razor wire glinting in the morning light.
Intake was chaos: medical screening, delousing, assignment to a dorm block. Bradley was placed in general population, Block C, medium security. The guard who processed him smirked.
“Turner, huh? Word is you pissed
off some powerful people. So watch your back.”
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9: Prison survival mode.
Days passed by very fast with strict routine at Rikers Island which couldn't by bent by any means.The morning count was every 5:30 a.m. followed by the slop for breakfast and then yard time if the weather allowed, showers under lukewarm water that cut off too soon, endless hours in the dorm with nothing but concrete walls and the low hum of male voices. Bradley moved through it all with deliberate calm, his body was becoming stronger now and his senses sharper. The system had turned him into something new, someone patient, watchful and lethal when needed.The assassination attempts had stopped since other inmates were now scared of attacking him, but there were other means to silent a man without the use of brute force.Word had spread through the block like wildfire: the “dead man” who couldn’t be killed. Six professional hitters down in two nights, and he’d walked away without a scratch. Inmates gave him space and nods of respect in the chow line, some even offer extra dessert fro
8. Evelyn's true colour
The Jordan estate glowed like a jewel against the snowy night, every window lit warmly as if in celebration. Inside the drawing room, a fire crackled in the marble hearth, casting dancing shadows across antique furniture and oil paintings of long-dead ancestors. The air smelled of pine from the massive Christmas tree in the corner and the faint, expensive notes of Victoria’s favorite Chanel perfume.Three crystal flutes stood on the silver tray, champagne bubbling gently. Victoria lifted hers first, the diamonds on her wrist catching the firelight.“To the end of an unfortunate chapter,” she said, her voice smooth as silk.Leo clinked his glass against hers eagerly, wincing only slightly from the movement, his ribs still tender, but the sling was mostly for show now. “About damn time. I thought the bastard had nine lives.”Evelyn stood a step behind them, near the window overlooking the snow-covered gardens. She held her flute but hadn’t drunk yet. Her reflection stared back from the
7. System awakening
The isolation cell felt different now.Bradley sat cross-legged on the cold slab, eyes closed, the blue glow of the system interface illuminating his mind like a private screen. The pain from the second attack had vanished completely with bruises faded, cuts sealed, ribs no longer tender. Whatever this system was, it wasn’t just giving him strength in the moment. It was rewriting his body.He focused on the translucent panel.**Urban Ascendancy System****Host: Bradley Turner** **Level: 2** **XP: 100/500 to next level** **Health: 100/100** **Strength: 14** **Agility: 12** **Intelligence: 15** **Charisma: 8** **Available Points: 0****Skills Unlocked:** - Basic Combat Module (Level 1): Enhanced reflexes, instinctive knowledge of hand-to-hand techniques, pressure points, and improvised weapons.**Active Quests:** - None**New Notification: Daily Login Reward Available**He mentally selected the notification.[Daily Login Reward claimed: +50 XP, Minor Healing Potion x
6. The assassin's shadow
The isolation cell was a tomb.Six by eight feet, poured concrete on all sides, a steel door with a narrow slot for food trays. No window. A single fluorescent bulb behind wire mesh buzzed overhead, never turning off. Bradley sat on the bare slab that served as a bed, knees drawn up, staring at the wall. His ribs throbbed with every breath; the cut on his forearm had scabbed over, but the bruises were blooming purple and yellow.Twenty-four hours in seg for “his own protection,” the guard had said with a smirk. Protection from what came next, more likely.He replayed the fight in his mind, the three men, their coordinated attack, the glint of the shiv. They hadn’t been random. Though paid to make it look like a typical prison beating gone fatal. The Jordans’ reach stretched even here, into the bowels of Rikers.He leaned his head back against the cold wall, sleep felt dangerous. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Maya’s face, heard Evelyn’s silence as the cuffs clicked shut.A clan
5. First night in hell
The clang of metal doors echoed like gunshots as Bradley was escorted into Block C at Rikers Island. The guard, a thick-necked man with a shaved head and a name tag reading “Ortiz” shoved him forward with casual indifference.“Home sweet home, Turner. Bunk 42. Touch nothing that ain’t yours, and maybe you’ll last the week.”Bradley stepped into the dorm, the stench hitting him first: a mix of sweat, bleach, mold, and something sour he didn’t want to identify. Sixty bunks lined the walls in two tiers, most occupied by men who looked up with predatory curiosity. Tattoos crawled up necks and arms; eyes assessed him like fresh meat.He kept his gaze forward, walking the narrow aisle to bunk 42 bottom, near the toilets, as expected. The thin mattress was stained yellow in places, the pillow flat and gray. He dropped his issued bedding roll onto it and began making the bed with mechanical precision, the way he’d learned in the brief intake orientation.Conversations resumed around him, but
4. Arrested and betrayed
The back of the police cruiser smelled like old vinyl, stale coffee, and something faintly metallic, maybe blood from previous passengers. Bradley sat with his hands cuffed behind him, the metal biting into his wrists every time the car hit a pothole. The two officers up front spoke in low murmurs, occasionally glancing at him in the rearview mirror. One was young, fresh-faced, almost apologetic. The older one had the weary eyes of someone who’d seen too many domestic calls in neighborhoods like the Upper East Side.Bradley stared out the window as Manhattan blurred past holiday lights strung across brownstones, doormen hailing cabs, couples in wool coats hurrying toward restaurants. Normal life. A world he’d been part of, but never really belonged to.His mind replayed the scene in the foyer: Victoria’s cold triumph, Leo’s smug grin despite the bruises, and Evelyn… Evelyn turning away. That fleeting look of relief on her face haunted him more than the cuffs. He’d caught it just befor
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