The night air in the South Block was thick with a tension so sharp it felt like it could draw blood. Word had traveled through the tiers. The King was broken, and the "No-Badge" code was being tested by fire.
Sarah Miller didn't report the assault. She knew if she called a "Code Blue," the Warden would launch a formal investigation, Marcus Holden would get involved, and the threat the Viper made would be carried out before the paperwork cleared the fax machine. She had to play it smart. She had to be the stern, job-oriented officer the prison expected.
She marched down the tier, her boots echoing with a harsh, rhythmic finality. She stopped at Cell 402.
"Castello," she barked, her voice echoing off the concrete. "On your feet. Now."
Johnny looked up from the next cell over, his eyes narrowing. Lou gripped his bars, his knuckles white. "He can barely stand, Miller," Lou growled. "Leave him alone."
"Back off, Marciano, or you're in the hole," Sarah snapped, not looking at him. She stared straight at the back of Donny's head.
"Castello. Administrative interrogation room. There was a discrepancy in the laundry manifest. Move."
Donny groaned, the sound wet and ragged. He pushed himself off the cot, his hand pressed against his side to keep his ribs from shifting. He turned, and for the first time in the light of the tier, Sarah saw the full extent of the damage. His left eye was a dark, swollen mountain of purple. His lip was split wide, and his jaw was beginning to discolor.
He looked at her, his one good eye pleading with her to stop. But Sarah didn't flinch. She grabbed his arm—firmly, but with a hidden gentleness in the placement of her thumb—and led him out.
The Quiet Room
The interrogation room was a concrete box with a single flickering bulb. No cameras. No windows. Sarah slammed the door and turned the lock.
The second the bolt clicked, her professional posture collapsed. She turned to Donny, her hands shaking as she reached for the first-aid kit she'd hidden under the table earlier.
"Donny," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Oh God, Donny."
"You shouldn't have... brought me here," Donny rasped, collapsing into the metal chair. He winced, his breath catching. "If Artie sees the log..."
"Let him see it," Sarah said, her voice regaining its edge as she soaked a gauze pad in antiseptic. "I'm questioning a suspect about missing property. It's my job."
She stepped close, tilting his chin up. When the antiseptic touched the gash over his eye, Donny flinched, his hand instinctively catching her wrist. They froze. The "No-Badge" silence was broken by the sound of their breathing—his ragged and pained, hers quick and terrified.
"Who did it?" she asked, her eyes searching his. "Was it Greco? Was it Valenti?"
Donny tightened his grip on her wrist, but he didn't pull away. "I fell, Sarah."
"Don't you lie to me," she hissed, tears brimming but not falling. "I saw the way Greco was looking at the tower today. I saw Holden in the Warden's office. They did this to send a message to me, didn't they?"
Donny looked away, his jaw tightening despite the pain. "If you know... then you know why I can't tell you. You keep your head down. You do your job. You stay gold, Sarah. Please."
"How can I stay gold when they're turning you into a ghost?" she asked, her hand moving from his chin to cup his bruised cheek.
Donny leaned into her touch for a fraction of a second—the only moment of peace he'd had since the block was sold. "Because as long as you're safe, they haven't won. They can break the ribs. They can't break the heart."
Suddenly, three heavy thuds echoed against the door.
"Officer Miller?" Artie Sterling's voice drifted through the steel, cool and mocking. "The Warden is asking why the manifest check is taking so long. He's wondering if the inmate is being... cooperative."
Sarah jumped back, her mask snapping back into place instantly. She tucked the gauze into her pocket and grabbed a folder from the table.
"He's being difficult, Sterling!" she shouted back, her voice turning cold and professional. "Give me five more minutes to get the statement signed."
She looked at Donny one last time. She reached into her boot and pulled out a small, folded scrap of yellow paper—a "Gold Letter" she had written herself. She pressed it into his hand.
"Hide it," she whispered.
Donny closed his fist around the paper. The pain in his body was a dull hum compared to the fire in his chest.
"I'm not leaving you in here, Donny," she whispered so low he almost didn't hear it. "Not this time."