Vale's evolution in the prison was a quiet one. A chess game, played in the dark corners of the yard, in whispered conversations, in the shadows of the concrete walls. He started organizing fights—quiet ones. Psychological ones. Vale didn't need physical violence to dominate. No, he was becoming something much more dangerous than that.
He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was orchestrating the entire prison.
His first move was simple. He began to stir unrest between the different cell blocks. It wasn't direct; it was subtle. He had a mute runner—a small, invisible cog—place chess pieces in the yard, signaling when and where tensions should rise. Each pawn moved was a step toward a greater goal. Each quiet word, each strategic rumor planted, was a calculated move. He didn't need to strike with force; he just needed to provoke.
And the prisoners responded, drawn into the game without realizing it.
Dante had taught him to think in terms of strategy, not just power. "This is The Theater of Control," he whispered in Vale's mind. Every actor on the stage had their part to play, and Vale was the director.
It wasn't just about the inmates, though. Vale's reach extended far beyond them. One of his most elegant moves was manipulating a warden's aide into getting reassigned. He planted rumors—small, subtle whispers—that the aide was involved in a bribe scheme. Within days, the aide was reassigned to a less favorable post. A new guard came in, one who Vale had already blackmailed into submission. The power dynamic shifted again, all with a whisper, a rumor, and the right piece of leverage.
Vale's power was growing. But so was his silence.
Vince, an older inmate who had once warned him of the dangers of being too bold, came to him one night. "The loudest one in the room dies first, kid. You're smarter than that."
Vale said nothing. He didn't need to. He wasn't loud. He didn't need to brag or threaten. He was a whisper. And in a place like this, a whisper was all it took.
He bartered knowledge for favors, not for comfort, but for control. He became the go-to for settling disputes. Inmates began to fear him, not because he was violent, but because they didn't understand what he knew. His words became weapons, and they sliced through the air with deadly precision.
"Did you know your cellmate snitched last week?" Vale asked one of the prisoners.
That's all it took. The following day, the cellmate was dead, his body crumpled in a corner. No one questioned Vale. He hadn't had to lift a finger. The mere suggestion of knowledge was enough to turn the tide.
In this dance of silence, Vale learned something deeper: control didn't mean power.
Control was power.
And Vale was beginning to understand how to wield it like a master.
But it wasn't just about manipulating his fellow inmates anymore. Vale had learned from Dante that manipulation wasn't just a tool—it was survival. The prison itself, the guards, the system—it was all part of the game. And Vale was ready to take on the next challenge.
His first real victim was Grayson, the sadistic warden
Vale planted a simple lie, just a whisper in the right ear. He told the inmates that Grayson was working with a drug ring inside the prison. The rumors slithered through the prison like a virus, spreading with lightning speed. The inmates, who were always looking for weakness in the system, latched onto the idea. They didn't need proof; they just needed belief.
And belief, Vale had learned, was the most powerful weapon of all.
Days later, Guard Grayson was dragged into the yard. The inmates, fueled by the lie Vale had planted, beat him senseless. Fists, boots, pipes—they all landed in a chaotic rhythm, shattering his jaw, leaving his teeth scattered across the yard like broken glass.
Vale stood at the edge of the yard, watching, unmoved. He hadn't laid a hand on Grayson. He hadn't even spoken to him directly. But the man was being punished for something Vale had orchestrated from the shadows.
Vale stood outside Solitary D-Cell 3, watching the guard turn the key with trembling hands. The door creaked open, and the guard stepped back, eyes widening at the sight inside. A body hung from the ceiling, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, blood dripping onto the cold cement floor. A note was pinned to the chest of the corpse, written in Vale's unmistakable hand:
"The Architect pays his debts."
It wasn't Vince's message. It was Vale's. But the kingpin took the credit. That was the deal now. Visibility for Vince, anonymity for Vale.
Vince had become a co-conspirator—one with reach beyond the walls of the prison and bloodshed. He was a shadow, a presence embedded into the very architecture of the institution. The guards feared him, the inmates obeyed him, and even the Warden's right-hand man trembled at the mention of Vince's name.
Vince's influence stretched far, a tangled web woven through the prison's hierarchy. Guard rotations, kitchen schedules, contraband routes—nothing was beyond Vince's grasp. He even had access to Warden Grayson's private ledger.
Vale? He was the executioner in Vince's kingdom. He delivered results with methodical precision:
Names of guards whose loyalty cracked under pressure.
Maps of hidden surveillance blind spots.
Fabricated rumors that turned allies into enemies.
Silent executions made to look like suicides.
But every favor demanded a price.
"You owe me now," Vince said one night, sliding a folded napkin across the table in the mess hall. The food reeked of bleach and rot, the air thick with the scent of despair. Three names were scrawled on the napkin, written in a code only Vale could decipher. These men were once part of the group that mocked him during Interrogation Week. One had pissed on him during the crucifixion.
Vale didn't flinch. His face remained a mask of cold calculation. No fear, only an unbroken stillness.
Dante's voice didn't need to speak. The answer was already clear. Vale nodded.
The next morning, the prison laundry room became a tomb. Three men, crammed into industrial dryers, were cooked alive. The sound of flesh sizzling and skin cracking filled the air. One man's eyes popped from the heat, like grapes bursting under pressure, while the others writhed in agony, their skin blistering, splitting, boiling. The smell of melted flesh and ammonia seeped into every corner of the room.
When Vince walked in to inspect the aftermath, he didn't flinch. He inhaled deeply, taking in the macabre scene.
"Creative," he said, a trace of approval in his voice. "But dangerous. You're leaving echoes."
Vale looked up, his face blood-slicked and cold. "Echoes are meant to be heard."
Vince's smile was small, calculating. He had no illusions about Vale's capabilities. "You're getting good at this. But they'll start looking closer. Even Grayson has limits."
Vale's smirk was one of quiet confidence. "Then we erase the limit."
Later that night, Vale sat alone in his cell, carving a toothbrush into a spike with careful, methodical movements. His eyes never left the door. He wasn't preparing for an attack. No, this was something else. He was preparing to send another message.
Because by now, revenge wasn't just a goal—it was currency. And with Vince's connections, Vale had amassed enough of it to bankrupt the very system that had made him into a monster. The world outside was built on lies, deceit, and pain—and Vale had come to realize that the only way to make it burn was to control that currency.
but vales life was not going to be that easy
Days later, the prison lawyer working on Vale's case was found dead—his body broken, his files burned to ash. The last hope of freedom had vanished, taken by the same forces that had shaped Vale into the man he had become.for some reason even kingping refused to talk to vale
.