Three days after Carter burned, D Block woke up noisy.
It started before roll call.
Shouts tore through the early-morning haze, sharp and raw enough to yank Jovan out of sleep before the siren ever sounded. It echoed down the block, multiplied by concrete and metal, until it became a chorus of panic.
"What the—"
"Get the guards!"
Jovan was already on his feet.
Jericko scrambled up behind him, knocking his Bible to the floor. "Jovan—what's happening?"
Jovan didn't answer. He stepped out into the tier just as guards came running from the far end.
The crowd parted just enough for him to see.
Oreo's body lay sprawled in his cell, massive frame twisted awkwardly, skin pale and swollen. Water pooled beneath him, seeping outward in slow, lazy rivulets. His clothes were soaked through, heavy and dark, as if he'd been dragged straight out of a river and dumped on concrete.
His mouth hung open.
His eyes were glassy.
Someone gagged nearby. "He—he smells like river water."
Jovan's jaw tightened.
Oreo was the man who laughed when others flinched, a big idiot with muscles for brains. Convicted murderer. Loan shark. The kind of inmate the guards liked having around because fear kept the block orderly.
Now he was dead.
And there wasn't a single drop of water anywhere near enough to explain it.
"Back up!" a guard shouted, shoving inmates away with his baton. "Everybody back!"
"Is there really a curse here?" someone whispered.
The guards ignored him.
Jefferson arrived late, irritation already etched deep into his face. He took one look at the body and sighed—not in horror, not in concern, but because he would have to work overtime filing paperwork.
"Cause of death... under investigation," he said flatly.
That did it.
"You're full of shit!" a voice roared.
Another inmate stepped forward. "Two deaths in six days! One burned, one drowned, we deserve answers."
Murmurs surged, fear drove them to anger.
"This sounds like ghost's killing!"
"You're letting us die!"
Jefferson raised his baton. "I said—quiet!"
No one listened.
Jovan stayed still, eyes fixed on Oreo's corpse.
Burning.
Drowning.
Two deaths. Two completely different elements. What was the connection?
His mind worked quietly, ruthlessly.
'Is there a reason the killings happen at night?' he thought.
His intuition was telling him the timing was important.
Jovan felt a cold prickle crawl up his spine, glancing over the faces of the angry prisoners nearby.
This felt like a serial killer's behavior.
If that was the case... what was his selection criteria?
Men? The Influential?
The guards tried to pull Oreo's body away.
A hand grabbed a baton.
Then another.
Chaos detonated.
Shouts became screams. Sock mace's filled with soap hut the guards with a thump. Men surged forward, fear curdling into rage at the guard's indifference.
"Riot! Riot!"
Jovan stepped back as the wave crashed forward.
And in the center of it, Dragon laughed.
He barreled through the guards like a freight train, massive shoulders slamming inmates aside as a guard swung at his head.
Something flashed.
A humanoid stand, with a horse shoe-like shape for a face covered in red vines, appeared and blocked the blows in his blind spots. It was red and gold, with lines across its arms and legs easily protecting Dragon's back as he fought in the crowd.
The guard went down.
Dragon rolled his shoulders and flexed his neck, grin wide even as the riot roared around him.
"Come on!" he shouted at the guards through the chaos. "Tell us what you're hiding!"
That was when he noticed Jovan.
Their eyes met across the mess of bodies and shouting voices.
Dragon slammed another inmate aside with his shoulder and moved, deliberately, until he stood near the railing where Jovan leaned. Heat rippled in the air as his Stand loomed behind him, its presence heavy and unmistakable.
Dragon's grin faltered.
"…You a Stand user too?" he asked, a flicker of caution creeping into his eyes as he followed Jovan's gaze—fixed not on him, but on the Stand behind him.
Jovan stepped closer.
"Hm."
That was all he said.
Two Stand users transferred in at once. Two impossible deaths in under a week.
That was enough to make Jovan curious.
And in his experience, a fight told you more about a man than any confession ever could.
"Ace of Spades," Jovan called calmly.
The small Stand appeared instantly, perching arrogantly on his shoulder like a king surveying lesser pieces. One hand vanished into its chest.
Jovan's fingers closed around a stolen stun baton as it emerged.
Dragon's smile tightened.
For the first time since the riot began, he looked serious.
"Lucky Bloom," Dragon said quietly.
His Stand shifted, crossing its arms in a strange, protective pose—its stance deliberate, practiced.
Jovan kept walking.
Eyes locked. Distance closing.
Dragon drew an inmate shiv, grip firm.
They moved at the same time.
Jovan swung first, baton arcing in a brutal strike. Dragon ducked and countered, their movements sharp and efficient—less a prison brawl and more a professional exchange. Fists, footwork, timing. Dragon was fast for his size, shockingly so.
Lucky Bloom wove around him, intercepting blows that should've landed, covering blind spots with precise, almost instinctive movements.
Jovan noted it instantly.
Speed and power… about a trained athlete.
Dragon gave ground as they fought, step by step—guiding the exchange.
Too deliberate.
Jovan's intuition flared.
Dragon was backing toward something.
Water.
The faucet loomed just behind him.
Jovan clicked his tongue.
"So that's your plan."
"Go!" Jovan barked suddenly. "Ace of Spades—Deluxe Lunch Attack!"
Ace of Spades snapped its arms into its chest and erupted forward.
Stored meals exploded downward in a humiliating cascade—containers bursting midair as a gallon of thick applesauce splashed directly into Dragon's face.
"What the—!"
Dragon's eyes flashed in disbelief. 'Why does this guy have so much apple sauce?'
He squeezed his eyes shut on instinct.
A mistake.
The stun baton cracked against his jaw with full force.
SMACK.
The impact sent him tumbling backward, skull ringing as he slammed into the concrete. Darkness swallowed his vision for a split second. Blood flooded his mouth—iron and heat.
"LUCKY BLOOM!" he shouted.
The Stand reacted instantly.
Lucky Bloom lunged, slamming its hand against the faucet.
Dragon's body warped, losing solidity, flowing unnaturally—limbs stretching and thinning like liquid poured into glass. In a heartbeat, his entire form spiraled inward, sucked violently into the piping.
In a single second, he disappeared from Jovan's still itchy fists.