Under the crowd's instigation, the atmosphere in the yard had been pushed to its peak.
With the mood hyped so high, nobody was content to just stand there.
"Ah!!!"
"Ah!!!"
Two desperate men roared and threw punches, closing in on each other in a blink.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
There were no flashy, performative attacks here — just real, solid blows, fist to flesh. Every strike landed like a hammer.
They used every dirty trick. Peter landed a sneak punch to Des's waist.
Des, showing no weakness and seemingly feeling no pain, grabbed the arm and twisted it hard.
As Peter tried to swing again, Des anticipated it and drove a knee into his abdomen.
Peter's movements faltered; with a muffled grunt he hit the ground.
Des followed up without mercy: an elbow smashed into Peter's chest, exploiting that momentary weakness.
Pfft!
A mouthful of fresh blood sprayed out. The knee and elbow were brutal.
Peter collapsed, barely conscious — no one here was going to help him.
Hahaha! Hahaha!
Des laughed like a savage, eyes full of twisted excitement and bloodlust. Killing here was rewarded; he lived for this.
The surrounding prisoners fed off it. Their enthusiasm soared and the atmosphere grew more feverish by the second.
They shouted, they gestured, they cheered because the mood demanded it.
"Des! Des! Des!"
"Des is the Butcher, the man!"
"Boss Des, don't be stingy with the cigarettes and fine wine tonight — I'll trade anything!"
It wasn't just cheering; they were already eyeing his spoils.
Cigarettes and booze were currency in this place. Winners got rations; losers were discarded.
Just as Des moved to claim his cigarettes and liquor, a figure abruptly appeared in the center of the arena.
Everyone froze. Someone challenging him?
The crowd's excitement spiked again — they hadn't expected this twist.
"Haha! Des! Someone stepped up — get him!"
"Hey, you lost, mate. That's Des the Butcher. You'll be crushed in one punch!"
"Kill the clown! Kill him!"
Des stared at the newcomer with disdain. He didn't remember anyone dressed like that among the inmates.
An outsider? Reinforcements?
Up in the stands the warden went pale. How had this person appeared so suddenly?
"Deg, did you schedule this?" he barked.
Deputy Deg shook his head. "Boss, I didn't. He just appeared out of nowhere."
Shit.
The warden cursed under his breath. If the prison security let people pop in at will, the system was broken.
"Deg, prepare to clean up the body. Pretend nothing happened. If he barged into hell without a gate, that's on him," the warden said grimly.
People died here every day — it meant nothing.
Des sneered. "Kid, with your frame you probably can't take one punch from me. I'll give you a chance."
"Kneel and kowtow now, and maybe I'll spare your pathetic life," he taunted, laughing like a tyrant enjoying control.
"Kneel!" the crowd chanted. "Kneel!"
The newcomer regarded them like ants who'd forgotten their place.
"Are you done talking? If you're done, then go die," Leo said flatly.
The prisoners laughed — until their faces swelled from invisible slaps.
Leo extended a hand, flexed, and steel bars and netting from the yard began to rise and deform, flying through the air as if pulled by invisible strings.
[Destroyer System: Deploying containment constructs — Engaging restraining field.]
In moments the metal had formed a giant iron cage that snapped shut, enclosing everyone. Now they were trapped.
Des, who had been arrogant a second ago, found himself impaled on a spear that erupted from the ground.
His face froze in terror; life, he discovered, was shockingly fragile.
The surviving inmates recovered from their brief shock, then erupted into screams.
Even hardened criminals became howling dogs when faced with death.
Those with weak resolve immediately dropped to their knees, kowtowing.
"My Lord! My Lord, please let us go!"
"We were wrong! We were wrong, please!"
"My Lord, you are magnanimous — just let us go!"
They had nowhere to run. Maybe, by stalling, the prison could save them? But no one was coming.
Leo watched their performance with calm detachment.
Not even kings or gods could save those who'd spent their lives taking life from others. Those who kill would be killed.
The yard filled with begging, bargaining, lies — the weak lied first; the tough tried to bluff their way out.
"You lot talk too much," Leo muttered. "Save your breath. Those who kill will be killed."
Silence snapped through the cage, brittle and absolute.
Outside, alarms shrieked; guards rushed in, but radios spat static as security systems were momentarily scrambled.
From the shadows Terminator TX emerged, expressionless, moving with machine efficiency.
He didn't speak. He secured resistance points, sedated the uncontrollables, and began preparations for transport.
Leo's order was simple: keep them alive — no unnecessary deaths.
"Containment, sedation, transport," he said softly. "Disable where needed. Keep them breathing."
TX gave a single, unemotional affirmation and executed the plan.
The prison storm had erupted. When the dust settled, very few of these men would be what they once were — in body, fate, or future.
Leo watched, unreadable. The yard smelled of sweat and iron and something colder: the imminence of change.
...
Author's Note:
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