Two Years Later
The hall's cold steel walls loomed oppressively, muffling the faint murmur of distant conversations. This twisted parody of a café, with its bolted-down tables and plastic chairs, was where deals were brokered, secrets exchanged, and fates sealed.
Mr. Adams, once a towering figure feared by both politicians and criminals, now sat hunched, his body shattered and propped up by a crutch. His green prison jumpsuit bore the number 21457, a humiliating contrast to the tailored suits he had once worn with pride. The scars on his face and hands told a tale of violence, pain, and survival—a testament to the brutal world he now inhabited.
Across from him sat a man whose very presence radiated danger. Known only as Blood, he was an enigma—a walking threat wrapped in striking crimson. His red jean jacket and sweater clashed with the blood-soaked world he thrived in. Beneath a red baseball cap, his sharp, calculating eyes glinted with intensity, his black gloves and boots grounding him in a grim reality. Blood's faint smile faded as he locked eyes with Adams, sensing not just desperation, but something far darker—an undercurrent of malevolence.
"It's been a while, Mr. Adams," Blood began, his voice smooth, yet edged with menace.
Adams ignored the pleasantry, cutting straight to the point. "I have a job for you."
Blood leaned forward, intrigued. Over the years, he'd heard countless desperate requests, but this one carried a different weight. "Let's hear it," he said, his businesslike demeanor replacing the fleeting smile.
Adams hesitated briefly, as though carefully choosing his words. "I want you to kidnap someone," he said, his voice steady, yet laced with malice.
Blood raised a brow. "And what do you want me to do with them after that?"
A cruel smile twisted Adams' lips. "Don't kill him until I'm out—eight months from now," he said coldly.
Blood frowned, skepticism creeping into his tone. "So, you want me to babysit someone for eight months? My job is to kill, not babysit. And what's your offer?"
Wordlessly, Adams slid a key across the table. Blood picked it up, inspecting it.
"In my study, under the desk, there's a safe," Adams explained. "Half the money is in there. The rest you'll get once I'm out and satisfied."
Blood's puzzlement deepened. "Why are you paying me if babysitting isn't my thing?" His tone sharpened. "What else do you expect me to do?"
Adams' grin widened, the smile of a man reveling in his own darkness. "Torture," he said, the single word hanging in the air like a blade.
Blood's lips curled into a predatory smile. Now it made sense. This wasn't a simple job; it was a red contract—drenched in blood, suffering, and vengeance.
"And who's the lucky target?" Blood asked, his excitement barely concealed.
"Krist Black," Adams spat, his voice heavy with hate. "That little brat."
The deal was sealed with silence. Blood pocketed the key, already plotting. This wasn't just another job; this was personal. And Blood, more than anyone, knew the art of breaking someone—piece by excruciating piece.
As Blood stood to leave, Adams' sharp eyes tracked him. This was a pact forged in the darkest corners of human intent, and they both knew it would change more than one life before it was done.
Back in his dim cell, Adams let the memories wash over him. From the day he was incarcerated, Anderson, leader of the Viking gang, had made him a target. Daily beatings, endless humiliation, and grueling labor had become his routine. The Red Axe gang, whose leader he had once prosecuted, had taken their turn as well, ensuring no moment of peace.
For over a year, Adams had endured, biding his time. Joining the Vipers—a gang he'd once done business with—was a desperate gamble that had paid off. The beatings lessened, though the price was steep. His wife and son had stopped visiting, cutting him off from the last fragments of his former life. He was utterly alone.
When the steel door to the meeting room had opened earlier, it hadn't been just Blood stepping into his life—it had been opportunity.
Later that night, as Adams lay on his narrow bunk, the familiar sound of heavy boots echoed in the corridor. Anderson appeared outside the bars, his hulking frame casting a shadow over the cell.
"So," Anderson sneered, "you think you're clever? Making deals, thinking you can survive in here?"
Adams met his gaze, expression unreadable. "I'm not trying to survive you," he said calmly. "I'm trying to outlive you."
Anderson's face twisted into a snarl, but before he could respond, the sharp click of polished shoes interrupted him. A man in an immaculate uniform approached, flanked by guards. His presence silenced even Anderson.
"Mr. Adams," the officer said evenly. "You're being transferred. Effective immediately."
Adams blinked in surprise. A transfer?
The officer handed him a folder, its contents confirming the news. "For your safety," he added, though Adams could see the fury in Anderson's eyes. This wasn't about safety—it was about moving Adams beyond the Viking leader's reach.
As Adams was escorted away, Anderson's glare burned into his back. But Adams didn't care. This was just another step in his plan.
In his new, quieter cell, Adams allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. The Vipers had been the key to this transfer, and now he was exactly where he needed to be. He thought of Blood and the task ahead.
Krist thought he'd won, that Adams' time in prison had broken him. But Adams knew better. Revenge wasn't a race—it was a waiting game. And in eight months, Adams planned to strike with devastating finality.
The lights flickered, plunging the cell into brief darkness. Adams smiled in the shadows. Krist wouldn't see it coming.
Poor Adams, he didn't know that krist have been working his ass out looking for way to keep him behind bars forever