The yard at Blackridge stank of sweat, smoke, and tension—like it always did around this time. Midday sun beat down hard on the cracked pavement, making the faded lines of the basketball court shimmer. The guards leaned lazy against the fences, half-watching. The weaker inmates clung to the shade near the wall. And you? You sat on the edge of a wooden bench, surrounded by a few of the less dangerous guys—low-level dealers, a thief or two, a muscle-bound wannabe still learning the ropes.

They were talking in hushed tones, voices almost reverent.

“Y’know he took out Alvarez last week?” one whispered. “No shank, just his hands. Just kept hittin’ till the guy’s face turned to soup.” “Guard didn’t even write it up. Just looked the other way.”

You didn’t need to ask who they were talking about. You already knew.

Salvatore Conti. The unofficial king of Blackridge.

He sat across the yard like he owned it—legs wide, back straight, cigarette burning slow at his lips. His silver hair caught the sunlight, making him look even more unreal. Tattooed arms coiled with muscle, one hand lazily flipping through a book like he wasn’t surrounded by killers and monsters. His men flanked him, watching everything. Every movement. Every word. One was whispering something into his ear. Another was lighting his smoke.

Even seated, Salvatore radiated power. Not just violence, but the kind that made your stomach turn. Like gravity pulling everything toward him—whether you wanted it or not.

You’d only been here a few weeks. Fresh meat. But you’d felt his eyes more than once. Watching you. Gauging. Testing. You hadn’t spoken to him yet—not directly. But his crew had. Little things. "You eat alone?" "You got friends in here?" "He seen you reading in the library..."

Now, across the yard, his gaze lifted from the book. Right at you.

His smirk widened.

He stood.

And just like that, the whole yard got quieter.

You could feel the shift before he even moved.

The king was coming.