Republic of Halcyon, Cerberus Maximum Security Prison
November 25, Year 345
"Prisoner 3245, Augustus Lucian." The warden began, placing his feet on the desk casually. "I've got some bad news for you." He leaned forward, adjusting the cigar in his mouth. "Your lawyer, Legber Hans, the Capitol Police found his head... left on his office chair."
"What terrifying news, sir. I liked him very much."
"Yeah, I thought so." The warden replied, unimpressed. He leaned back in his chair, smoke curling around him as he continued. "The court ordered us to put you under heavier surveillance and security. You won't be seeing daylight for the next month, but before that you have to meet with your new lawyer that the National Security Bureau assigned to you."
He took a slow drag of his cigar, releasing the smoke lazily before dismissing James with a wave.
As they passed by narrow windows, James caught a glimpse of the outside. A fierce snowstorm was raging, the wind whipping snow against the walls and fences, hiding the world beyond the prison.
Finally, they reached the visiting room. A guard pulled open the door, and they guided him inside, the chains rattling with each step. Across the table sat a woman, dressed neatly in a blouse and jacket, her hair pulled back. A stack of papers lay in front of her, and she was looking down at one, her pen in hand.
When she looked up and saw him, her expression changed. For a brief moment, worry and tension flickered in her eyes. She quickly put the pen down and straightened, her fingers tensing a bit as she watched him sit. James took in her face, wondering what she had come here to say.
"I would like to speak with my client privately."
"If anything happens, push the button, and we will come." The guard instructed, pointing out a small, red button on the lawyer's side of the table and the heavy door closed.
The woman glanced briefly at the red button on the table, then back at James, her face tightening as if gathering her thoughts.
"My name is Lara Veiran, and I've been appointed as your lawyer and representative by the NSB, Mr. Castillo. So—"
"James. Just call me James." He interrupted, lifting his hand and placing it flat on the table.
"Alright, James. Since you're in quite a tight spot, there's really only one option left, and that is—"
"I've already been sentenced." He began, his gaze fixed on the woman. "I've been given double life sentences, so I don't understand why I need a lawyer or a representative, especially when I never asked for one."
The woman placed her hands on the stack of documents that were scattered across the table, leaning forward slightly as she spoke again.
"First-degree murder. You've ordered the deaths of countless people,rivals, traitors, and anyone who crossed you. You've made a habit of killing people to maintain your power, leaving bodies behind like they didn't matter."
James sat still, his jaw tightening as the lawyer continued.
The lawyer paused and looked at James."
"Then there's the drugs. You flooded the streets with them, causing overdoses, ruining lives."
James didn't move, just listened
"You kidnapped people. Played mind games. Destroyed families. And you built an army of killers who did your dirty work. Murder-for-hire, whenever you needed someone to vanish. You silenced anyone who tried to speak against you, using fear to keep them quiet. You even dealt in military-grade weapons, guns, bombs, whatever it took to keep control. You blackmailed people, ruined businesses, and forced people to work for you. You took what you wanted, no matter the cost."
He leaned back, folding his arms.
"James, you've built the biggest criminal empire in the city. No one has as much power, influence, or fear in their hands as you do. But here's the thing, there is a chance for you, a small one, but a chance nonetheless." She paused, watching his face closely. "The government wants the other bosses, the mafias, the cartel leaders, and, more importantly, the corrupted officials in your pockets. The judges, the cops, the politicians. They want to tear the system apart."
She leaned in, her voice lowering to a more serious tone.
"You want to walk out of here, don't you? Then you'll have to help them. You'll need to give them the names of the other bosses, the locations of the shipments, the people you bribed, the dirty cops. You'll have to tear down your own empire, expose everyone who worked for you and with you. And if you do that if you give them the full picture, all the evidence they'll consider giving you a lighter sentence. Maybe even a reduced life sentence, or witness protection."
She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle in.
"You've got a choice. You can tear down everything you've built for a chance at survival, or you can go down with it all, holding onto your pride. Think about it carefully, because time is running out."
James leaned back in his chair, a slow, amused smile spreading across his face. The faint sound of his chuckling filled the small visiting room, cutting through the tension in the air. His eyes glinted with something unreadable, almost as if he were enjoying some private joke. He met the lawyer's gaze, a look of disbelief mixed with dark amusement.
"Which district did you grow up in, Miss?" He asked casually, his voice smooth, almost mocking.
The lawyer blinked, momentarily thrown off guard by the question. She hesitated, trying to read him, but she couldn't quite place the underlying tone in his voice. "First District."
James smiled wider, his lips curling as if savoring the irony of the moment.
"The First District..." He muttered, almost as if testing the words on his tongue. "The rich, the privileged."
He leaned forward then, his posture shifting, his arms resting on the table. His voice dropped, becoming more menacing, more calculated.
"You have no idea what it's like down there, do you? To grow up where everything's stacked against you, where survival isn't a choice, it's the only damn option."
She met his eyes again, her lips pressed tight, but James wasn't finished.
"You've lived in the First, where everything is shiny and polished, where people wear their wealth like armor. But let me tell you something." His voice was low now, almost a whisper, but the edge was unmistakable. "In the Eighth District where I grew up the ground is cracked, the people are starving, and the only thing that matters is who's got the power to make it another day."
The woman didn't speak. She couldn't. His words weren't just an accusation, they were a brutal truth she had never experienced, one she could never understand in her privileged, sheltered life.
"You know. "People like you, the ones born with a silver spoon in their ass, they don't get it. They never will. You've got all the doors open for you, everything handed to you on a damn platter. But for people like me, like those in the Eighth? There are no doors, only walls. The system is stacked to keep us down, to make sure we never rise above the dirt."
He sat back again, his gaze cold, but his words hung in the air like a weight.
"You've never had to fight for anything, Miss. You've never had to worry about where your next meal is coming from or whether you'll survive the night. You've never been on the wrong side of the law, where the system isn't a safety net, but a trap. You can't even imagine it."
James paused for a moment, watching her closely, and for the first time, the woman saw the flicker of something raw in his eyes. It was a fire, one that had been stoked by years of struggle, by the relentless grind of life in a world that never cared.
"The thing is, Miss..." He said, his voice growing softer now, but there was no mistaking the venom in his words, "You live in a world where a person's worth is decided by how much money they've got, how clean their clothes are, how high their family name stands. People like me, though? We're worth nothing. We're just numbers, just another lost soul in the gutter."
He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "But you—" He gestured to her with a tilt of his head. "You can walk into a room, sit in front of a judge, and get away with things I'd never even dream of. Your kind, the ones born into privilege, they don't get punished for their sins."
James sat back again, the smirk returning to his face.
"You're sitting here, all polished and primed to 'help' me, but you don't even understand the world I've lived in. The way things work down there. You don't even know what it's like to fight for survival."
In that moment, the difference between their lives was as clear as day and night, and James knew she would never truly understand what it meant to come from the streets, to rise from the dirt with nothing but blood and grit.
The lawyer took a slow breath, her eyes narrowing slightly as she processed James' words. She leaned forward, her gaze sharp and calculating, as if trying to piece together the puzzle that was James Castillo.
"So." She started, her voice measured, "that's why you chose to build your empire in the wealthier districts like the Fourth, Third, Second, and First? Because you were jealous of those of us who lived better?"
James' eyes flicked to her, the edges of his lips curling into a grim, knowing smile. He didn't flinch at her words. Instead, he met her question head-on, the rawness of his past, his choices, and his ambitions simmering just beneath the surface.
"Jealous?" He repeated, his voice cold but laced with an almost bitter amusement. "No, Miss. I wasn't jealous. I knew what I was doing." His smile faded into something darker, more intense. "I built my empire in those districts because I wanted to show them what real wealth and real power mean. I wanted to be the one they feared, the one they couldn't ignore. I wanted to dominate. I wanted more than what you've got. More than a comfortable life. I wanted to be the Kingpin, to show everyone that power doesn't come from where you're born, it comes from what you can take, what you're willing to sacrifice, and how much you're willing to bleed for it."
James' expression darkened further as he leaned forward, locking his eyes on hers.
"I wasn't just building an empire, I was building a legacy. I didn't care if it came at the expense of those in your shiny districts. You think you know wealth? You think you know power? It's not the money and the fancy clothes, it's the fear, the respect, the control you hold over everyone else. It's the ability to crush your enemies and make them beg for mercy, knowing you don't have to show any."
He paused, the weight of his words sinking in, his gaze never leaving hers.
"That's why I did it. To show them all that someone from the Eighth someone like me could rise above. And I did it. I took control of all of it. I wasn't going to play by your rules. I made my own."
Without waiting for a response, James stood, the chair scraping against the floor as he moved. His fists clenched and he slammed the thick metal door with all the strength he could muster.
A second later, the heavy clank of boots on the floor signaled the arrival of the guards. One of them stepped forward, a harsh look on his face as he unlocked the door and motioned for James to step back.
"You done?" The guard grunted, but there was no answer. James merely glanced at him, and nodded.
The guards escorted James back to his cell where he stayed for decades and they tried to break him.
Beatings, torture, starvation—they tried everything, desperate to rip the secrets of his empire from him. But James Bellini never snitched, until at 95 years old, he closed his eyes for the last time.
He left something behind that stunned the world. He outlived every man who worked for him, every rival who tried to kill him.
In life, he never broke his code—he never snitched. But after his death, he left a book behind. A detailed confession of his entire life, filled with the names of his men, his enemies, his deals, and the exact routes he used for every job. It was his final message—a legacy carved in ink, exposing the empire he built and the darkness that followed him.