The next morning arrived sullen and restless. At breakfast, Bruce Chen entered the prison cafeteria, tray in hand, and the room went dead silent. All eyes sharpened and followed him, curiosity and dread mixing in the stale air. Scar's old sphere of influence in Harbor City Prison still haunted the halls, he left behind four dozen followers scattered across various cell blocks. Bruce might now rule his own cell with an iron and unpredictable will, but the rest of Scar's network had not surrendered to fear. They watched Bruce with undisguised hatred, waiting, testing, hungry for an opening.
Bruce ignored their glares. He moved with a predator's calm, each step measured, eyes flicking over faces that once barked orders at him, spat at his feet, or rained blows upon him when Scar demanded it. He was no longer the scapegoat or victim; something cold and lethal had awakened in him, and even the hungriest jackals at Scar's old table seemed wary as he approached.
Instead of cowering, Bruce walked directly to a long table occupied by a knot of Scar's loyalists. All of them recognized Bruce, some from old beatings, others by Bruce's new reputation. In the past, these men would snap their fingers and expect Bruce to scurry. Now, Bruce stood at the head of their table, tray barely making a sound as he set it down.
Bruce glared at them with chilling, ruthless focus. Several men bristled. One heavyset man, resentment and bravado written all over his broken nose, slammed his fist down. "You got a fucking problem, Chen?" he snarled. "What're you..."
The broken nose man never finished. Lightning-quick, Bruce's right hand flicked; a slender, sharpened stone slipped from his sleeve and into his palm. The stone flashed in his grip. In one smooth, savage motion, he drove it into the broken nose man's neck and carved a fatal line. Blood spurted in a bright arc, staining the table and the man's shirt. The convict clutched his throat, collapsing, convulsing on the floor amid the startled, frozen silence.
The prison, in response to Bruce's last act of violence, had banned chopsticks altogether, but Bruce adapted. He'd spent late hours in his cell last night, secretly scouring the ground for anything he could sharpen, together with the memorized vulnerable points of the human body, all strikes will be lethal.
Shouts erupted, panic and horror mixed, as Bruce lunged at the next closest man, grabbing him by the throat and driving the stone knife down. This time, his target threw up his hands. The stone bit deep into a palm instead of a windpipe, blood spraying as the man howled in pain.
"Help! Get him off me! Help!" the injured man shrieked, trying to scramble away.
At last, shock burned away and instinct took over. Three more men lunged at Bruce in a messy brawl, fists flying, curses and shouted threats echoing through the cafeteria. Bruce was a fury, fighting wild and ugly, one arm guarding his head, the sharp stone in his other, carving deep gashes in thighs and arms as he spun and lashed out.
Bruce took his hits, bruises, a split lip, a boot to the ribs, but his attackers fared even worse. The ground became slick with bloody footprints. Screams and curses tangled in the chaos, drawing the attention of the whole cafeteria. Guards, alerted by the ruckus, rushed into the scene, batons swinging. Bruce saw black stars as one baton smashed across the back of his head, but he kept fighting until two more piled on, wrenching his arms behind his back, pinning him face-down in spilled breakfast and blood.
The head guard thundered over, face red, veins bulging at the temples. "Chen! Have you truly lost your mind?" he bellowed. "I'm reporting every bit of this, do you fucking understand? With your record, you're asking for a death sentence!"
Bruce wiped fresh blood from his brow with the back of a shaking hand, jaw clenched in defiance. His voice came out hard and quiet, every word deliberate. "You'd better hurry, then," Bruce said. "If you don't, I swear, I will kill every last one of them with my own hands."
Those who'd been fighting Bruce scrambled back, unable to hide the terror in their eyes. Nobody, not even Scar in his prime, had ever looked so certain, so ready, about how far he was willing to go. They realized, in that blood-soaked moment, that Bruce Chen was beyond fear, beyond the rules, beyond taming.
Amongst the crowds, men from Bruce's cell, watching from the far end, exchanged silent, thankful glances. Not a single one of them regretted keeping their distance. They would rather share a cage with a tiger than ever cross Bruce again.
And so, in Harbor City Prison, blood and legend mingled once more, and Bruce Chen's reign, fueled by desperation and sharpened in loneliness, had only just begun.