He laughed, a cold, humourless sound. "I knew you weren't just a meathead! Some of my associates were certain you'd choose violence." An invitation gleamed dangerously in his eyes, the friendly neighbour facade dissolving completely. He wanted me to see him clearly now. A predator, someone who thrived on intimidation. The subtext was obvious: he would have gladly welcomed a fight, confident I would lose. I wasn't arrogant enough to dismiss that possibility, but nor was I naive enough to let fear rule my reaction. He wouldn't find easy prey in me.

"There's still time," I responded casually, rolling my shoulders in what I hoped appeared nonchalant. Internally, my heart had begun pounding, betraying the real tension I felt. The situation was quickly growing dangerous, or perhaps it had been perilous from the start, and I was only now catching up. Either way, we both knew the fragile pretence of civility between us was only a mask. If Amir wanted to see me flinch, he would be disappointed.

His smile broadened, revealing more of the ruthless predator beneath. "Indeed, there is. Now, the rules. Let me illuminate you. This institution is governed by those who wield power. Most of these individuals are easily identified; they stand on the other side of the bars. Others, however, are harder to see at first glance. My associates and I belong to this latter group. We run a particular lane here, and we take serious issue with those who encroach upon it." As he spoke, he loosened his grip slightly, revealing the vials again.

"Drugs?" I questioned plainly.

"Among other things," Amir conceded with a nod. "You might say we are in the prison haulage business. If an inmate wants something transported, discreetly, they come to us."

"What's any of that got to do with me?" My voice was cautious, deliberately neutral.

Amir's smile faltered, irritation briefly surfacing. "Do you take me for a fool, Brandon? Do you truly believe I'm unaware of what transpires within these walls we call home?"

I gave a small shrug. "It's just a few vials I swiped from the infirmary. I'm not planning on getting involved in your… haulage… business." His reaction felt disproportionate, suspicious even. Perhaps this whole exchange was less about the actual contraband and more a message designed to intimidate. Yet this was prison, a place where control was enforced ruthlessly, and even minor infractions drew swift consequences.

"And how, precisely, would you categorise selling weapons to Grian?" he asked sharply, an edge of accusation in his voice.

I realised then he wasn't as well-informed as he wanted me to think. He genuinely believed some arrangement existed between me and One Eye. It also told me that Amir and Grian might well be rivals, or at least not part of the same faction. Navigating this could rapidly spiral into gang politics, a situation I desperately wished to avoid. I needed more information before inadvertently stepping into the crossfire.

"To sell weapons, I'd first need weapons to sell," I said carefully.

"You expect me to believe that's not why you're working in the workshop?" Amir scoffed incredulously, shaking his head. "Now you're simply insulting my intelligence."

"I've never made a weapon in my life, Amir. Never discussed it with Grian either. Whoever told you otherwise is mistaken. You might want to verify your sources before accusing me."

His expression flickered with anger, then quickly smoothed into another practiced smile. "Perhaps I will. I'd be most disappointed to discover you're lying. We're neighbours, Brandon; there ought to be camaraderie between us."

"Camaraderie?" I echoed incredulously. "From where I stand, you've stolen from me."

"Stolen?" He chuckled dismissively. "No. Reclaimed is the better term. Think of it as me relieving you of a burden. Did you not realise the wind made these vials clink loudly? Imagine if someone less neighbourly had discovered them first. You could have faced serious consequences."

Embarrassment surged through me as I realised he was right. It had been a stupid oversight because I was dangerously careless. Still, despite the legitimacy of his point, the hostility between us lingered. He could have earned genuine gratitude had he simply returned the vials with a friendly warning. Instead, he'd chosen a confrontation designed to assert dominance. That wouldn't easily be forgotten or forgiven.

"Thanks for the warning," I said, forcing politeness into my voice. I extended my hand expectantly, waiting for the vials to be returned.

Amir stared down at my hand, then slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. "Surely you don't think you're getting these back? No, my friend, I already told you. You have been relieved of this burden. Consider it a favour."

"From my perspective, it looks a lot like robbery," I responded coldly.

"Then I suggest you reconsider your viewpoint," he countered sharply, voice thick with menace. "These vials represent trouble. You should be thanking me for shouldering the risk on your behalf."

"I don't need anyone taking risks for me," I snapped back defiantly. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."

His eyes flashed dangerously. "Ah, precisely the response I'd expect from a boy who doesn't understand the world he's entered. You survived one small test and it inflated your confidence. Do you honestly believe that's the extent of violence here? A reluctant beating?" He laughed bitterly, pointing a disdainful finger in my direction.

"You've entered hell, Brandon. I offered you guidance, a nurturing hand even, yet you reject it in ignorance. One day, perhaps, you'll comprehend precisely what you've lost today. But clearly, that day has not yet arrived. For your insult alone, I'll keep these vials."

Fury radiated off him, his composed facade entirely discarded. The more he spoke, the clearer it became he genuinely believed he'd offered me a favour. Perhaps there were dynamics I didn't fully grasp yet, but his approach had been needlessly aggressive. His words didn't frighten me. If anything, they intrigued me. Clearly, Amir represented something significant here, and I made a mental note to uncover exactly what.

I felt surprisingly calm, considering the threat he posed. Amir wanted respect, craved submission even, and refusing it felt like victory enough. Besides, the vials had been a careless impulse anyway. Maybe he really was doing me a favour, unknowingly sparing me from future trouble.

"Alright then, Amir," I said dismissively, waving him away. "Thanks for stopping by."

His face contorted into a stunned, angry expression. Clearly, he was accustomed to fear, not casual dismissal. I subtly shifted my stance, preparing myself should violence erupt. For a tense moment, Amir stared at me in disbelief, struggling to regain composure.

"You dare dismiss me? You persist with this disrespectful attitude?" His voice lowered dangerously, turning into a growl. "I was willing to forgive your insolence earlier, but no longer. Perhaps it's time someone taught you what happens when a child plays with fire."

He stepped menacingly into my cell, and I instantly readied myself. Amir was tall and lean, formidable certainly, but I was ready. If he wanted to treat me like an animal, he'd quickly discover I had teeth.

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Before the confrontation escalated, another voice called out cheerfully from the corridor, "'Ow's it goin', lad? 'Eard you're back now?"

It was Old Billy, my other neighbour, his familiar booming voice immediately easing the tension. Amir visibly straightened, forcing a false smile onto his face as he backed away from me, quickly restoring a composed mask.

"We can resume our lesson another day," he hissed quietly, barely containing his anger. Clutching the vials tightly enough to threaten their shattering, he strode past Billy and disappeared down the hall.

A hulking figure filled the now-empty doorway, Old Billy peering after Amir briefly before turning back to me, a broad, friendly grin splitting his face. "'Eard you got yerself into a spot of bother after our talk?"

"Billy?" I asked, though I already knew it was him. I felt relieved to see his face, yet still wary, my adrenaline from the near-fight still pumping through me. This prison kept throwing me into new webs of intrigue and hostility. I knew that each choice I made here had consequences. Allies, enemies, risks and opportunities.

I let out a sigh, tension slowly draining from me. I'd survived Amir for now, but instinct told me this was only the beginning.

"That's me, alright!" Billy said, stepping inside and extending a massive hand toward me. It was enormous, resembling a bear's paw more than anything else, with fingers thicker than sausages. Instantly, I understood why Amir had retreated so hastily. If Billy threw a punch at the wall, my bet would be on the wall losing that fight. Realising I'd been staring a little too long, I quickly reached out to shake his hand. Despite its intimidating size, Billy's handshake was surprisingly gentle, a controlled touch that somehow made me even more wary. This was clearly a man who knew exactly how powerful he was, and how to manage it.

"Nice to finally meet you in person," I replied, genuinely grateful for his intervention moments before.

"Would've 'appened sooner if ya 'adn't gone and gotten yerself into trouble the first day!" He let out a booming laugh. "From what I 'ear, you came out alright though. Little scrapper, ain't ya?" He playfully ruffled my hair, ignoring my half-hearted attempts to dodge, leaving me with an embarrassed grin.

His voice turned quieter, more serious, as his massive hand landed gently on my shoulder. "I 'ope you've been takin' my lessons to 'eart, lad. Didn't look like it just then, did it?" He cast a meaningful glance towards Amir's shared wall before looking back at me.

I sighed deeply, feeling the weight of his words. "Trust me, he came to me it definitely was not the other way around. Amir's not someone I want to cross paths with again, believe me."

Billy studied me closely for a moment. "Good. 'E's more dangerous than he looks. Do you get what I mean?"

I nodded firmly. "Yeah. I picked up on that pretty quick."

He gave me a thoughtful look, then squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. "You seem like you've got your 'ead screwed on straight. Let's make sure it stays that way, ay?" Releasing me, he looked around my cell, shaking his head in mild disgust. "Looks bloody miserable in 'ere, lad. Still got about an hour till curfew. Why don't ya come round mine and we play a game o' cards?"

"Not sure about cards, I haven't got a coin to my name. Unless we're just playing for fun?" I laughed. Even when I had money, I wasn't much of a card player.

Billy's grin widened. "Listen, lad, we're always playin' for somethin'. Sometimes it's coins, sometimes pride but there's always stakes. Consider that another lesson. But just this once, we can keep it friendly. Don't tell anyone, though. I can't be losin' my reputation!" He gave me a conspiratorial wink and laughed again.

As I entered Billy's cell, I was stunned by how comfortable it looked. Compared to mine, it was practically luxurious. He had a padded couch against the far wall, a sturdy wooden table with cushioned chairs, framed paintings, even a small bookshelf neatly stocked with old volumes. To top it off, real curtains hung over the window, and beneath my feet, I felt the softness of actual rugs. He obviously hadn't sneaked all this in alone, which meant Billy was far more connected than I'd initially realised.

The way I figured it, you faced two major issues when it came to smuggled goods. The first was actually obtaining the items themselves. That required either knowing someone who had connections or having the savvy and resources to arrange it yourself. But the second—and arguably tougher—problem was keeping hold of what you'd managed to smuggle in. After all, this was prison, not some secret hideout full of hidden alcoves. Guards passed by multiple times a day, searching cells at random. That Billy had somehow managed to openly keep all this non-standard furniture spoke volumes and left a lasting impression on my young mind.

"Welcome to my 'umble abode," Billy said with mock grandeur, spreading his arms dramatically. "Make yerself at home, lad. I'll get the cards ready."

"'Humble' isn't exactly the word I'd use," I remarked, openly impressed. "You've even got rugs on the floor! This hardly counts as a cell at all. I don't think I've been in a place as nice as this."

I stopped and thought for a moment.

"Well, without robbing it that is."

Billy laughed warmly. "Maybe it's nicer than most, but still ain't special. Better than the new cells, that's for sure."

"Honestly, this is nicer than the place I lived before prison," I admitted, settling onto one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs. It'd been ages since I'd felt this relaxed.

Billy glanced at me, curiosity flickering in his eyes as he began shuffling a worn deck of cards. "Yeah? Street kid, were ya?"

I hesitated for a moment, considering how much to reveal. "Me and a couple of friends lived in a…" I paused, realising I didn't want to risk giving away anything that could endanger Morgana and Dillon. "Well, let's just call it a hole. No furniture, no comforts. Anything decent we had was stolen."

Billy nodded understandingly, dealing the cards without missing a beat. "Know the feelin', lad. Lived in plenty o' holes myself. But I'd go back in a heartbeat if it meant bein' free again, I tell ya."

"Me too," I replied softly, picking up my cards. They were awful, as usual.

It looked like we were playing Kings and The Mob. As card games went, it was fairly straightforward. The main goal was to protect your King from your opponent's Mob while simultaneously attempting to take out theirs. At the start, you'd be dealt one card to serve as your King, and then you'd draw additional cards to build your Mob. Each turn, you'd select a number of cards—some to attack, some to defend—and place them face down.

If it was your turn to attack first, you'd reveal your attacking cards immediately. If your attack cards exactly matched the total value of your opponent's defending cards plus their King, you'd instantly win the game. If your attacking total didn't exactly match but still exceeded their defenders, their defending cards would be destroyed. However, if your attackers' value was lower than their defenders', your attacking cards would be lost instead.

After each round, both players would draw more cards from the deck to replenish their Mobs, continuing the rounds until the deck eventually ran out or someone achieved victory.

Billy set down his hand, looking reflective. "Thirty years is a long stretch, Brandon. Makes it even more important you keep yer head down. Seen too many lads make enemies early, small grudges blowin' up over the years. Starts small, just little scraps. Then one day—" Billy slammed his massive hand onto the table for emphasis, jolting me slightly. "—Boom! Someone ends up stabbed in the showers. Outta nowhere. Never saw it comin'."

We played out the first round, and despite Billy being far less cautious than Dillon, he still managed to outsmart me easily. Determined, I pushed forward, hoping for a swift, glorious victory.

Iit never came.

Billy effortlessly took round after round, beating me soundly. By the third straight loss, I was close to accusing him of cheating, despite knowing full well he was simply better.

Mercifully, the guards' voices echoed through the corridor, announcing curfew. It gave me a convenient reason to concede without admitting total defeat.

"I'll practise," I declared, standing up with exaggerated pride. "Next time, you won't have it so easy."

Billy roared with laughter, clearly amused. "We'll see about that, youngster. But trust me, you'll need a lot more practice to take me down!"

I wished him goodnight and returned to my cell, closing the door behind me with relief. It wouldn't be long before the guards came by to lock the doors anyway, and this way I could avoid any further unwanted encounters.

Lying in bed, I stared at the dark ceiling, Billy's words playing through my mind. Making enemies so soon into a long sentence was dangerous. It was something I'd understood logically, yet every time trouble appeared, I found myself rushing toward violence or confrontation without thinking clearly. I'd fully intended to handle Amir's visit peacefully, to defuse tensions and avoid escalation, but somehow things had nearly erupted again.

I knew I had to change. This wasn't the street any more. There was nowhere to hide. Every small fight, every harsh word, could spiral out of control and haunt me for decades. I had to learn self-restraint. I had to learn to swallow my pride, to step away even when provoked. I promised myself, as I drifted off to sleep, that tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, I'd choose the sensible path.

For my own survival, I had to.

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