Chapter 2: The Whispers in Block D**
The tension in Block D was thick enough to carve with a shiv. Inmates kept their distance from Arthur, whispering in huddled corners during recreation hour. Everyone expected Kane to break the old man’s jaw before the evening count. But Arthur walked the yard in peaceful silence, his hands resting lightly in his pockets.
"You're playing with fire, pops," whispered Marcus, a young twenty-year-old serving a robbery charge. Marcus handed Arthur a clean towel by the wash basins. "Kane buried two guys in county before he got transferred here. He owns the yard."
"Nobody owns anything in here, son," Arthur replied gently, wiping his hands. "Not even their own shadows."
Across the yard, Kane sat on the bench under the watchtower, furiously taping his wrists. His crew surrounded him, hyping him up, but Kane’s eyes were fixed on the old man. Something about Arthur’s gaze had gotten under his skin like a splinter. It was the complete lack of terror. In prison, fear was currency; when someone refused to pay, the system cracked.
"Take him out tonight during laundry shift," Kane’s lieutenant, a snake-eyed inmate named Diaz, urged. "Show the block who runs this joint."
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Kane grunted, staring down at his bruised knuckles. For the first time in five years, his stomach felt hollow.
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