Underworld's Chosen Like None Other

Time Is Up

In Blackthorn, Warren’s life is a daily fight for survival. He’s targeted by inmates loyal to Victor, who ensures Warren’s suffering continues even behind bars with the corrupt guards turning blind eye. Warren needed to survive regardless.

The air in Blackthorn Penitentiary was thick with the stench of sweat, rust, and despair. The cellblock echoed with the clatter of steel doors, the shouts of inmates, and the occasional crack of a guard’s baton against a skull. Warren James Holt, inmate 47219, shuffled through the gray corridors, his orange jumpsuit hanging loose on a frame worn thin by weeks of barely edible slop and relentless beatings. His eyes, once sharp with hope, were dulled by exhaustion, but a spark of defiance flickered deep within, refusing to die.

Warren’s life had been stolen in a single night. His wife's betrayal, the twins who weren’t his, his brother , Caleb's cold rejection—all of it paled against the setup that landed him here. Victor Crane, the billionaire puppeteer of Ironspire’s underworld, had orchestrated it all. Now, in Blackthorn, Victor’s reach extended through the razor-wire fences. Inmates loyal to him—brutes with shivs and sneers—hunted Warren like wolves. The guards, bought or bullied, turned a blind eye, their silence as damning as the fists that found him.

Today was no different. Warren kept his head low as he crossed the yard, a concrete expanse scarred by fights and blood. The sun was a pale smear behind Ironspire’s smog, casting no warmth. He felt eyes on him, predatory and patient. A group of inmates, led by a hulking figure named Dax with Victor’s tattooed initials on his knuckles, lounged near the weight pile. Their laughter was a blade, sharp and deliberate. Warren’s ribs ached from their last “lesson” two nights ago, when they’d cornered him in the showers. The guards had watched, one even spitting on the tiles as Warren curled into a ball.

Dax was five times heavy weight champion boxer. He was one of the big gun in the prison and led the black axe gang in the prison.

Warren made it to the mess hall, grabbing a tray of gray mush that passed for breakfast. Sitting alone at a corner table, he scanned the room. Every face was a potential threat. His mind churned, replaying the moment Rachel's voice cut through him:

“They’re not yours, Warren. They never were. Sonia giggle , Samson's hug- all stolen.

Victor’s smug face loomed in his memory, a ghost that haunted every corner of this hellhole. Warren’s grip tightened on his plastic spoon, the cheap utensil bending under his rage.

“Yo, Holt.” The voice was low, slithering. Warren looked up to see Dax looming over him, flanked by two of his crew—lean, twitchy types with shivs hidden in their sleeves. “Heard you’re still breathing. Boss ain’t happy about that.”

Warren’s pulse quickened, but he kept his face blank. “Tell Victor I’m not that easy to break.”

Dax’s grin was a jagged thing. “Oh, we’ll break you.” He leaned closer, breath sour with prison hooch. “Your brother says hi, by the way. Says you’re a real good mule.”

The mention of Caleb was a match to Warren’s fuse. He stood, tray clattering to the floor. The mess hall went quiet, eyes turning to the brewing storm. Dax’s crew stepped forward, but before fists could fly, a siren wailed. Guards stormed in, batons raised, barking orders. A fight had broken out across the hall—two gangs clashing over a smuggled phone. The distraction saved Warren, but Dax’s glare promised this wasn’t over.

That night, in his cell, Warren lay on the thin mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. The walls seemed to close in, each scratch and stain a reminder of his cage. He’d lost everything— Rachel, the kids, his freedom. Caleb's betrayal stung worst of all; his brother’s voice, cold and final, echoed in his head: “Can’t get involved.” Sleep didn’t come.

Instead, memories of Victor’s smirk and Caleb’s pockmarked face twisted into nightmares. Warren’s hands clenched, nails biting into his palms. He wasn’t done yet. He’d find a way to burn Victor’s empire to the ground, even if it cost him everything.

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Days bled into weeks, each marked by new bruises. Dax and his crew were relentless, their attacks timed when guards were conveniently absent. A shove in the laundry room, a fist in the stairwell, a whispered threat in the chow line: “Victor sees you, Holt.” The guards, like Officer Hargrove with his greasy smirk and pocket full of Victor’s cash, did nothing. Warren learned to move like a ghost, sticking to shadows, eating fast, sleeping light. But survival wasn’t enough. He needed a plan, a weapon, something to tilt the odds.

His low point came on a gray morning in the yard. The air was sharp with the promise of rain, the inmates restless. Warren was hauling trash bags to the dumpster—a job for “fresh meat,” Hargrove had sneered—when Dax’s crew closed in. There were four this time, their eyes gleaming with purpose. Dax cracked his knuckles, Victor’s initials glinting on his skin. “Time’s up, mule.”