The cellblock reeked of sweat, piss, and old fear.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Even the rats knew something was wrong.
Vale sat against the cold stone wall, bandaged and bruised, his words no longer holding weight. His silver tongue, once enough to turn men against each other, now rang hollow. The others avoided his eyes like he was diseased.
Then came the sound. Not of boots.
Shoes. Polished. Clean.
Tik... tik... tik...
The door opened with a soft hiss, not a groan. That was the first warning.
The second was the way the guards stood — not with the bored swagger of authority, but stiff and silent, eyes cast downward like children awaiting punishment.
And then he walked in.
The new jailer.
Slim, almost elegant. Black gloves. A spotless uniform that looked ironed in Hell. Not a speck of dust touched him, as if the grime itself was afraid.
He didn't speak at first. Just walked the length of the cellblock, eyes sweeping across the line of inmates like a butcher choosing his next cut.
When he stopped, it was in front of a boy — no more than nineteen. New. Shaking.
"You're slouching," the jailer said, voice like clean glass: cold, perfect, dangerous.
The boy straightened.
Too slow.
The jailer drew a long, thin baton. No flourish. No drama.
Just a single crack.
The boy's skull split before anyone understood what had happened. Blood sprayed across the wall like paint.
Silence. A whimper. Nothing else.
The jailer wiped the baton on his coat.
"Listen carefully," he said, stepping back. His tone was calm — almost kind.
"You will stand when I enter. You will line up in silence. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will breathe only when I allow it. Or…"
He looked down at the corpse, then back up. His eyes landed on Vale.
"…you'll end up like him."
Vale didn't move. He wanted to speak. Wanted to smirk, manipulate, find a crack in the man's words — but there was nothing. No weakness. No ego. Just a blank, terrifying stillness.
The man's eyes said one thing: I see you.
And for the first time since he entered this hell, Vale felt something tighten in his throat.
Fear.
Vale thought he had control.Thought he could outthink the monster.But Marlow—The Jailer—was always ten steps ahead.
The cellblock was too quiet.
Even the rats stayed hidden.
The sound of boots echoed—steel-toed, soul-deep.
Vale stood in his corner, arms crossed, gaze lowered but burning.
Then he entered.
Marlow.
The Jailer. Butcher. Tyrant in uniform.
He strolled past the inmates like a wolf among pigs, his eyes scanning for a throat to rip out.
He stopped at Vale's bars.
Smirked.
"How's the limp, mutt?"
Vale didn't answer.
Marlow leaned in. His breath smelled like whiskey and rot.
"You know," he said, tapping the bars with a baton, "I've been thinking. About your mother."
Vale's gaze slowly lifted. No blink. No breath.
"Wonder what kind of whore she had to be to spit out a little thing like you. Probably let the whole block run through her, huh? That's how trash like you gets born."
The silence that followed was thicker than blood.
Then—
Vale moved.
No warning.
He launched forward, fingers through the bars, grabbing Marlow by the collar and yanking his head into the steel.
Crack.
Blood sprayed.
Marlow stumbled back, laughing.
"There he is!"
The cell opened with a buzz—someone triggered the override.
Vale didn't wait.
He charged.
Screamed.
A punch.
Another.
He tackled Marlow to the ground like a beast let loose. Rained fists into the man's face. Marlow's lip split. Blood hit the floor.
But Marlow... didn't flinch.
He grinned.
Then the baton came out.
THWACK.
Vale's rib cracked.
THWACK.
His shoulder dislocated. He dropped to one knee.
Marlow rose, wiped blood from his mouth, and whispered:
"Now you're mine."
Marlow grabbed Vale by the back of the neck and slammed his face into the wall—once, twice, until red smeared the concrete like a dying painting.
Vale tried to swing—missed.
Marlow dodged, then drove his knee into Vale's stomach so hard it made him vomit.
He didn't stop.
Vale crawled.
Marlow kicked him in the spine. CRACK.
Again.
"Come on, little genius," Marlow spat. "What happened to all that big brain talk?"
He dragged Vale up by the jaw. Slapped him.
Vale's lip split. Eyes dazed.
Marlow elbowed him in the temple. Lights out.
But Vale wouldn't fall.
He grabbed Marlow's belt—tried to pull him down.
Marlow answered with a savage uppercut to the chin.
CRACK.
Teeth. Gone.
Vale hit the ground like a broken puppet.
Face down. Twitching.
"I've broken men stronger than you, Vale," the Jailer whispered as he carved a line down Vale's chest. "You were just more… interesting."
Then he walked away.
The guards laughed.
Vale stared at the floor, red pooling around his face.
Inside his skull, something shattered.
Something dark.
And in that silence, Dante's voice returned.
"Now you understand. Mercy is for kings. Monsters… have purpose."