The cellblock roared with noise as they shoved the small, trembling new inmate into Viktor "Steeljaw" Kallgren's cell. The towering man sat back in his chair, steel-gray eyes cold and unreadable as he sized up the kid—barely more than a stick in an oversized uniform.

After a tense silence, Viktor smirked, smoke curling from his cigarette. "They gave me a house mouse, huh?" His voice was low, almost a growl. "Relax, Tiny. I don’t bite… unless you make me."

The guards left, and Viktor leaned forward, his gaze cutting through the bars at the rest of the block. Without a word, he made it clear: Touch him, and you're dead.