The prison was colder underground.
Beneath the crumbling prison, where the old tunnels met the frozen rock, there was a place the guards didn't speak of. A place carved out long ago, all exits sealed shut when the prison expanded. It had no cells, no light, no cameras. Just concrete, rust, and violence.
The pit.
A jagged hole opened in the middle of the floor, thirty feet across, as if the earth itself had given up and collapsed inward. Iron railings wrapped around its rim, now bent and warped from years of fists and fury. Prisoners gathered there like insects in a funnel, lining the edge above, crowding the narrow walkways below, some even clinging to broken pipes and makeshift ladders to get a better view. The cold rolled in through the cracks in the stone, biting through their skin, but nobody cared.
They came to watch blood spill.
Tonight was louder than usual. Shouts echoed off the walls, wild and raw, voices overlapping in half a dozen languages. A storm of boots stamped against metal. A flurry of hands exchanged cigarettes, bets, and bottle caps.
In the center of the pit, two men fought like wolves.
No gloves. One rule. The only way to end the fight is to KO your opponent or kill him.
Cassian didn't blink when the fist came at him, fast, sloppy, and predictable. He slipped the jab with a calm step to the right, head low, shoulders tight.
Then he crept in.
Quick as a shadow.
His fist came up in a rising arc, cracking into the underside of his opponents jaw with a thump like a steel pipe meeting bone. The force lifted the man's feet half an inch off the ground. A sharp crack echoed through the cold pit, loud enough to silence the mob for half a heartbeat.
Then came the "OOOH" a unified groan from the crowd like a wave breaking.
The man stumbled back, clutching his mouth. His jaw hung loosely, twitching like a puppet string cut too short. Blood poured down his chin, steaming in the frozen air. He growled, eyes wide, and with a single rough motion, snapped his jaw back into place.
The sound made a few inmates flinch. Cassian didn't move. He just stood there, fists at the ready.
He began to circled the bigger man like smoke around fire.
His opponent was built like a slab of concrete, six inches taller, maybe eighty pounds heavier. Every step he took shook the ground underfoot. But size had its weaknesses. Big meant slow. Big meant predictable.
Cassian read him like a blueprint.
Blood dripped from the other man's mouth as he lunged again, swinging wide. Cass weaved left, ducked under, then snapped two brutal punches to the ribs. Thud. Thud. The air wheezed out of the giant's lungs. A third strike followed, a knuckle-driven jab to the solar plexus that made the man stagger back with a grunt.
But this wasn't a ring.
No gloves. No breaks. No mercy.
The giant charged again, hands reaching for Cassian's throat like twin bear traps. Cass slipped just out of reach, pivoting fast. He brought up his leg and drove a kick into the back of the man's knee. The joint buckled, and the big man dropped to one knee with a roar of pain.
The crowd erupted again, boots stomping, voices howling.
Cass moved to finish it.
But the giant wasn't done.
In a burst of sudden speed, the man shot up and caught Cassian by the throat with one hand, a crushing grip, thick fingers like metal bars. Cass didn't even have time to breathe before he was slammed into the ground.
The world cracked.
Pain exploded through every nerve in his body as his spine hit concrete. He felt the cold shoot straight into his bones, followed by something wet in his mouth. He coughed and spat. Blood.
Something inside had definitely broken.
Above the pit, the chaos of the fight became background noise.
On the far end of the courtyard, standing atop a rusted guard tower, two men watched in silence.
The tower's interior was warm, sealed behind glass, a small room with a panoramic view. Inside, a bored-looking guard lounged on a chair, a cigarette hanging off his lip and a rifle balanced across his lap. Smoke curled lazily in the air.
But the two men outside the room didn't need warmth.
One was a mountain of a man, his body thick and round, but not soft. He stood just behind the other figure, a smaller man, maybe five-foot-eight, lean and sharp. His prison stripes looked freshly pressed, spotless even here. A guard's leather jacket was draped neatly over his shoulders, unzipped. His black boots were clean and polished to a shine. On his left wrist: a silver watch. On his ring finger: a polished gold ring.
An umbrella tilted over his slicked-back, dark hair — held by the larger man with precise care, as if this were just another day on the streets of Calabria.
The smaller man didn't blink as he looked down at the pit.
"This the kid that got you beat? You sure?" he asked, his voice thick with a Milanese accent, smooth like oil over gravel.
The big man shifted beside him, almost crouching to speak in the smaller man's ear. His voice rumbled like low thunder.
"Yeah, boss. It's definitely him. Just give it a second."
Cassian couldn't move.
Every inch of him screamed. His nerves felt like wires sparking inside his skin. He tried to push himself up, just an inch, but as he arched his back, a sharp, molten burn seared through his spine. Something deep in the muscle had torn… or worse.
His breath caught.
And then came the shadow.
His opponent loomed over him like a living avalanche. Before Cassian could react, WHAM, a boot came crashing down onto his chest. It felt like a sledgehammer slamming against stone. Something cracked. Maybe a rib. Maybe more.
He coughed up a wet glob of blood. The cold floor beneath him turned red.
Another stomp.
Then another.
WHAM. WHAM.
Each one dug deeper into his ribcage, turning flesh to pulp, cartilage to splinters. His limbs twitched, but he wasn't blocking anymore. The crowd howled. They weren't watching a fight now, they were watching an execution. Gladiator carnage in a forgotten hole in the Earth.
Inmates roared from every corner of the pit. Bets had been made, deals struck. Some prisoners had wagered their entire year's food rations. Others had gambled their cells, their shifts, even their smuggled contraband. The air buzzed with sweat and bloodlust.
And Cassian?
He didn't move.
Didn't flinch when the last stomp rose into the air.
But just as it came crashing down —
Everything stopped.
---
"Cassian!"
The voice was warm. Male. Familiar.
"You ready up there? We don't wanna be late, kiddo!"
Cassian blinked.
The cold was gone. The smell of blood and rust replaced by fresh linen and polished oak.
He stood in front of a mirror. A child — no older than twelve — dressed in a sleek black tuxedo. Crisp white shirt. Perfect bow tie. His hair combed neatly to the side, shoes polished to a mirror sheen.
The boy in the mirror stared back at him. Innocent.
Behind him stretched a bedroom fit for a king. Tall windows framed by heavy velvet curtains let in the soft golden light of early evening. The walls were lined with custom bookshelves filled with comics and leather-bound encyclopedias alike. A display case of vintage action figures stood beside an antique writing desk. In the far corner, a four-poster bed sat under a canopy trimmed with gold, its duvet embroidered with the Vale family crest, a silver eye pinched between a finger and thumb.
The room smelled of cedarwood and fresh laundry.
It was massive. Too big for any child to need. Yet here, in the heart of the Vale estate, extravagance was normal.
"C'mon Cass ee don't wanna be late. Hon have you seen my glasses?"
"On your head, Noah!" called out a sweet, female voice from another room.
Cassian turned toward the sound, his eyes wide.
"Coming!" he shouted, his voice cracking just a bit with youth.
He darted from the mirror, black shoes tapping softly against the marble floor as he ran out of the room.