The cell door slammed behind him, the sound like a final warning. Jayden sat on the cot, wrists still raw from the cuffs, heart pounding with leftover fire. He'd dodged max by inches. Inches.
Dre's words haunted him: You need a move he won't see coming.
Jayden flipped open his sketchbook, pencil digging deep into the page. He drew bars bending, not breaking. A flame coiled inside a cage, but this time it wasn't trapped—it was sharpening itself, shaping itself into a weapon.
For the first time, he realized Spider had been writing the script since day one. Every fight, every setup, every shove in the showers. Spider wanted him to play the part of the out-of-control kid who couldn't survive the system. And Jayden had played along too many times.
Not anymore.
---
The Grind Continues
The block moved as it always did. Guards barking, trays clattering, whispers cutting through the air like knives. But Jayden forced himself to notice more—the rhythm of the routine. Which guard got lazy on second shift. Which kids ran errands for Spider. Who flinched when Rico walked past, who lowered their voice when Dre spoke.
Information. Dre had called it currency. And Jayden was broke no more.
At rec, instead of posturing in the yard, Jayden walked the track slow, eyes forward, listening. He caught fragments. Spider trading favors. Rico boasting about "unfinished business." Even Knox's crew murmuring about who had smokes and who had protection.
For the first time, Jayden wasn't just surviving the block. He was reading it.
---
A Different Kind of Power
In the cafeteria, Spider tried again. He swaggered to Jayden's table, dropped a candy bar with a grin. "Sweet tooth, fire-boy? Might help you cool down."
Old Jayden would've snapped, maybe smashed the candy back into his face. But now? He slid the bar across the table to a scrawny kid two seats down. The boy's eyes went wide, hands trembling as he grabbed it like gold.
The room went silent. A gesture, small, but it hit like a fist. Respect didn't just come from fire—it came from control. Spider's grin tightened, Rico's smirk faltered. Dre gave the faintest nod from across the room.
That night, through the wall, Dre's gravel voice carried pride: "Now you're learning. You didn't just avoid his trap—you stole his stage."
Jayden lay awake staring at the ceiling, the fire steady in his chest. This was what Dre meant. Not silence. Not chaos. Strategy.
---
The Countermove
But Spider wasn't done. He never was. Word traveled fast: he was planning something bigger, something that would make the shiv look like child's play.
Jayden knew he couldn't just wait for it. He had to set something of his own in motion. Something Spider wouldn't expect.
He tapped the wall twice, the code they'd made. "I'm done reacting," he whispered.
Dre's answer was immediate. "Good. So what's your move?"
Jayden didn't know yet. Not exactly. But he knew this: the next play wasn't going to belong to Spider.
He opened his sketchbook again and drew a chessboard. On one side, Spider's grin carved into a pawn. On the other, a torch crowned like a king. Underneath he wrote: My game. My fire.
The block was shifting. For once, Jayden wasn't the hunted. He was becoming something else.
And Spider, for the first time, didn't see it coming.