Black Ridge knew, others might know too.

He was taken to a narrow cell on the lower tier, given a blanket, a bar of soap, and the standard warning not to create problems.

The officer delivering the items gave him a long look before walking away.

Nathan sat on the bunk and listened.

Prisons talked constantly.

Doors clanged.

Men shouted.

Metal scraped concrete.

Televisions blared from dayrooms.

Somewhere down the hall, two inmates argued over cards.

Somewhere else, somebody was crying quietly and trying not to be heard.

Nathan closed his eyes for a few seconds and let the atmosphere settle around him.

He had not come here to survive by luck.

He had come to learn who had pushed him into this place, who was paying to keep him there, and why.

Victor Sloane was not smart enough to construct the whole operation alone.

Someone bigger was moving pieces.

Nathan intended to find out who.

To do that, he needed time.

And in Black Ridge, time had to be earned.

Dinner was announced with a buzz and a shouted order.

Doors opened.

Men filed toward the mess hall in loose, wary streams.

Nathan joined them at the back, carrying his tray like every other inmate.

The hall was large, loud, and tense in the way only prison dining rooms could be.

Long metal tables were bolted to the floor.

Fluorescent lights reflected off scratched surfaces.

The food smelled of overcooked grain, salt, and industrial grease.

Guards stood along the walls, alert but trying not to look nervous.

Nathan paused just long enough to study the room.

Clusters had already formed.

Men sat by rank, gang, race, fear, habit.

There were invisible borders everywhere.

Some tables were crowded.

Some had one or two men guarding empty seats with posture alone.

Near the center stood a table with only one place setting left on it.

No one sat there.

Nathan saw the calculation in the room immediately.

An empty table in a full prison hall was never truly empty.

He also saw the eyes on him.

Waiting.

Curious.

He walked to it anyway.

The hall quieted a little as he sat down.

Nathan bowed his head slightly and began eating.

The porridge was watery.

The bread was stale.

He took measured bites and listened to the sound around him shift.

At the far end of the room, a man rose.

Even before anyone whispered the name, Nathan knew what role he played here.

Large men who lived by intimidation always moved with a certain theatrical slowness.

They wanted the room to notice.

They wanted silence to spread ahead of them like a herald.

This one was in his forties, broad across the shoulders, thick through the neck, with flattened knuckles and a scar across one eyebrow.

He carried his strength the way some men carried a weapon: constantly visible.

Tattoos disappeared under his sleeves.

His tray remained untouched on the cart behind him.

“That’s Strength,” someone muttered two tables away.

The nickname fit, but only in the simplest possible way.

Nathan had known strong men before.

Real strength was controlled.

It required patience, restraint, precision.

This was brute force wrapped in ego.

Strength stopped at the table and looked down at Nathan with open contempt.

“Get up,” he said.

Nathan took