2025-12-22 22:00:34The 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 quieter now.
“Fresh fish.”
“Looks soft.”
“Word is he beat down some rich kid. Jordans got him locked up quick.”
Bradley ignored them, folding the scratchy blanket into hospital corners. He sat on the edge of the bunk, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. His cheek still stung from Leo’s graze; his knuckles ached from the punches he’d finally thrown. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.
Maya.
He wondered what they’d told her. That Daddy had to go away for work? That he’d done something bad? Or nothing at all, letting her imagination fill the silence.
Lights out came at 10 p.m. sharp. The overhead fluorescents snapped off, replaced by dim security lights that cast long shadows. The dorm never truly went quiet, coughing, snoring, the occasional shout from a nightmare, the flush of toilets every few minutes.
Bradley lay on his back, eyes open, listening to the sounds of men pretending to sleep. He thought of the estate, the warm glow of Maya’s bedside lamp, the way she always insisted he read one more page of whatever book they were on. He thought of Evelyn’s perfume lingering in their bedroom. He thought of the look on her face as the police led him away.
Sleep didn’t come easy. When it finally did, it was shallow and restless.
Morning reveille blasted at 5:30 a.m. a deafening buzzer followed by guards barking orders. Bradley rose with the others, shuffling into line for count. The air was colder now, the concrete floor icy under bare feet until they were allowed socks and slides.
Breakfast was a tray of lukewarm oatmeal, a hard-boiled egg, and watery coffee. He ate standing with his block at long metal tables bolted to the floor, surrounded by men who sized him up between bites.
A wiry Black man with graying dreads slid onto the bench across from him. Mid-forties, lean muscle, eyes sharp but not hostile.
“You are Turner?” he asked quietly.
Bradley nodded warily.
“Name’s Ray. I knew your pops back in the day, worked at the same shop in Queens before he passed. Heard you married up and fell down.”
Bradley tensed. “are you here to collect a debt or something?”
Ray chuckled low. “Nah, man. Just saying watch yourself. Word travels fast in here. Rich folks want you gone? It means someone’s getting paid to make it happen.”
Bradley’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “You know something?”
“I know enough to mind my business. But you got that look, like you ain’t broken yet. That pisses certain people off.” Ray stood, tray in hand. “Keep your head on a swivel, kid.”
He walked away, leaving Bradley with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
The day dragged on, rec yard for an hour under gray skies, walking laps around cracked concrete while guards watched from towers. Phone access was limited and lines were too long with credits too expensive. He managed one collect call to Marcus again.
“Any luck on a lawyer?” Bradley asked, voice low amid the noise of other conversations.
“Working on it,” Marcus said. “Public defender’s office is slammed. But Brad… Evelyn came by the shop yesterday. Said she needed your old tools for a garage sale or some shit. Looked real nervous.”
Bradley’s grip tightened on the receiver. “Did she say anything about Maya?”
“Said the kid’s fine. Staying with the grandmother. Didn’t let me ask more since her driver was waiting outside in a Benz.”
The call ended too soon.
Back in the dorm that afternoon, Bradley sat on his bunk writing a letter on the cheap paper they issued. The letter was addressed to Maya. He kept it simple: I love you more than all the stars. Be good for Daddy and keep drawing those unicorns. I’ll be home soon.
He didn’t know if it would reach her uncensored.
Dinner was mystery meat and mushy vegetables. He ate mechanically, then joined the line for evening meds though he had none prescribed. The nurse, a tired woman with kind eyes, slipped him an extra ibuprofen when no one was looking.
“For the bruises,” she murmured.
He nodded thanks.
Night fell again. Second night.
Bradley lay in his bunk, the dorm settling into its uneasy quiet. He was exhausted but wired, every creak and cough keeping him alert.
Around 1 a.m., he heard it, soft footsteps padding across the floor. Three sets, deliberate but quiet. Shadows moved in the dim light with three figures approaching his bunk.
He sat up slowly, back against the wall.
The first man was huge , about six-five, easily three hundred pounds, skin inked with prison tattoos. The second was shorter, wiry, with a scar across his throat. The third hung back, holding something that glinted.
The big Guy spoke in low tone. “You are Bradley Turner?”
Bradley didn’t answer. His heart hammered, but he kept his face blank.
“Someone paid good money for you to have an accident,” Scar Throat guy added. “so it's nothing personal.”
They moved fast.
The big Guy lunged first, meaty hands reaching for Bradley’s throat. Bradley rolled off the bunk, hitting the floor hard. The giant’s fist smashed into the mattress where his head had been.
Alarms didn’t sound so guards were conveniently absent or paid off.
Bradley scrambled up as the Scar Throat guy swung a sharpened toothbrush handle with a razor melted in. Bradley dodged, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting hard. Bone cracked as the shiv clattered.
Third Guy came from the side with a sock weighted with batteries. It caught Bradley across the ribs, knocking the wind out of him.
Pain exploded, but adrenaline surged.
He tackled the third Guy, driving him into the bunk frame. Metal groaned. They hit the floor in a tangle.
The big Guy grabbed Bradley from behind, arms like steel bands around his chest, lifting him off his feet. Bradley kicked backward, heel connecting with shin but the giant grunted and didn’t let go.
The scar throat guy, cradling his broken wrist, scooped up the shiv with his left hand and stabbed upward.
Bradley saw it coming.
He threw his head back, smashing into the big guy’s nose. Cartilage crunched causing the arms to loosened just enough.
Bradley dropped, twisting and then grabbed the scar throat guy stabbing arm and slamming it down onto his knee causing another crack with the shiv falling again.
Third Guy was back up, swinging the sap wildly. Bradley ducked, the weight whistling past his ear, and drove his fist into the man’s solar plexus. Air whooshed out making he fold
Big Guy roared, blood streaming from his nose, charging like a bull.
Bradley sidestepped at the last second, using the giant’s momentum to shove him headfirst into the metal toilet partition. A sickening thud. Big Guy dropped, out cold.
The dorm was awake now, men sitting up, watching but no one ntervening. In here, you didn’t get involved unless it was your fight.
Bradley stood panting in the center, ribs screaming, blood dripping from a cut on his forearm he hadn’t felt happen. The three attackers lay groaning or unconscious.
Footsteps finally came with guards running in with batons out.
“What the fuck happened here?” one shouted.
No one spoke.
Bradley raised his hands slowly. “They jumped on me. It was self-defense.”
The guards looked at the scene, three downed inmates and one bleeding newcomer standing.
One guard smirked. “Looks like you handled it.”
They cuffed Bradley anyway following “protocol” and dragged the attackers to medical. The big Guy had a concussion; Scar Throat guy two broken wrists now.
Bradley was taken to
segregation for the night, a tiny isolation cell, cold and silent.
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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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