Garcia didn't sleep at all.
The concrete slab beneath him was indistinguishable from the floor—cold, unyielding, indifferent. A single coarse blanket scratched against skin long accustomed to silk sheets and feather duvets.
At thirty-one, he had never felt so small.
He almost laughed at himself.
Had his masculinity evaporated the moment he saw Erika's body? Had something inside him died with her?
Right now, he felt hollow. Softer than he'd ever imagined possible.
Wasn't that man afraid?
The one in the next cell.
Crude. Arrogant. Unbearably calm.
And disturbingly compelling.
Even inside the transport van, through the haze of panic, Garcia had sensed someone watching him. When he'd looked up, he met a pair of brown eyes—sharp, amused, unapologetic.
The owner had been young. Strikingly handsome. Insolent confidence etched into every line of his face. Even in wrinkled, unwashed clothes, he carried himself like someone untouched by circumstance.
With that face, he could have walked into any modeling agency and signed a contract within an hour.
Instead, he had chosen this path.
Even with perfect behavior, he would not see freedom for decades.
"Excuse me… what are you looking at?"
"Your mouth," the young man had replied lazily. "The way it droops makes me nauseous. If you're going to cry, lower your head."
In the days that followed, Garcia would learn that Davis possessed a rare talent:
He knew exactly where to press to make someone unravel.
Morning arrived with the metallic scream of cell doors unlocking.
Davis stepped out first.
Rested. Loose-limbed. Alert.
Garcia followed, dark circles under his eyes, skin pale as paper.
He tried to greet Davis—some instinct from boardrooms and business dinners—but the words died halfway up his throat.
Corporate charm had no currency here.
Patricia intercepted Davis immediately, broad shoulders blocking the corridor.
"Name's Patricia. That's Robert," he said, nodding toward the blond man. "Anything you need, talk to your neighbors."
Davis tilted his head slightly.
"You got cigarettes?"
Patricia blinked, then quickly handed one over. When he reached for a lighter, Davis stopped him.
"A certain nagging woman once told me smoking ruins stamina. Causes cancer. Weakens performance." He held the cigarette between his fingers but didn't light it. "If I ever fail to perform when necessary, that'd be tragic. I'd disappoint far too many women."
Robert watched quietly.
There was something deliberate about Davis. Every word placed with surgical precision.
Patricia burst out laughing. "Robert, you've got a soulmate! We need a non-smoking section just for you two."
"Robert Swenson," Robert said evenly. "Pleasure."
Davis's eyes cooled instantly.
"Have we met?"
Robert's pulse sharpened.
"Yeah," Davis replied casually. "I bet five hundred on you during your match against Martinez. You lost."
A faint smile. No warmth in it.
"So I'm thrilled to meet the man who owes me money."
Robert exhaled slowly.
Good.
Not sent by James.
"Listen," Davis continued lightly, "I don't mind being friendly. But disrespect me, and I'll make it memorable."
His gaze flicked briefly toward Garcia.
"And don't touch the chick behind me."
Then he walked off toward the work detail.
Garcia stared after him, stunned.
Why defend me?
He hurried to catch up anyway, falling in step like a shadow.
Patricia watched them go.
"…He's got attitude," he muttered. "Makes me want to shut that mouth myself."
Robert hummed in agreement.
Last year, he hadn't feared prison because he knew he had protection.
Davis had none.
Either he was dangerously capable—
or suicidally foolish.
At lunch, Robert and Patricia picked through their bland rations.
When Davis and Garcia entered the cafeteria, heads turned instantly.
Catcalls followed.
"Sleep well, sweetheart?"
"Still intact back there?"
"Let me show you a good time."
Davis ignored them all.
He sat beside Robert and began eating, unbothered.
"Government must care deeply about our health," he commented dryly. "Low fat. No protein. Designed to keep us obedient and undernourished."
Patricia laughed loudly. "You adapt fast. I like that."
Davis poured himself weak tea from hot water, indifferent to both praise and provocation.
The yard watched.
And somewhere beneath the noise, something shifted.
A predator was settling into new territory.
Quietly.
Patiently.
A sharp metallic crash cut through the cafeteria noise.
Trays clattered across the floor.
Garcia had fallen.
He scrambled on his knees, hands shaking as he tried to gather the scattered food.
"Watch where you're going, you brainless idiot!"
A massive white inmate seized him by the collar and yanked him upright. Spittle sprayed across Garcia's face as the man snarled inches from him.
His name was Jackson Kimbally — once a notorious serial killer in Connecticut. Three officers had died subduing him. Too dangerous for execution, too politically inconvenient for martyrdom, he had been buried alive in Hills to rot out the rest of his days.
"I—I'm sorry…"
Garcia didn't realize how that trembling apology only sharpened the hunger in the other man's eyes.
"You dumped your food on me," Jackson growled. "So how are you going to apologize?"
The surrounding tables quieted. Anticipation thickened the air.
"Get down," Jackson sneered. "Clean it up. Like a dog."
Laughter rippled outward.
Garcia was thirty, well-kept, refined. Sharp features, dark brown hair, educated posture. His body lacked the hardened muscle of prison labor; next to the bronze, scarred inmates, he looked breakable.
Worse — he had once been important.
And nothing delights fallen men more than tearing down someone who once stood above them.
Garcia's gaze shot toward the guards.
They didn't move.
One leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
Two stray dogs fighting over scraps — what was it to him?
Despair burned behind Garcia's eyes.
All those taxes. All that faith in the system.
For this?
The crowd began clapping, chanting.
Garcia's vision blurred. Humiliation crept up his spine, suffocating—
Then a voice drifted down from above him.
Smooth. Magnetic.
"You're such a troublesome little chick."
A pause.
"And I told you before — that drooping mouth of yours is truly unpleasant."
Garcia blinked up.
Davis.
Suddenly, being a chick didn't feel so terrible.
Jackson turned, towering at nearly 190 centimeters, looming over Davis with a revolting grin.
"Well, well… you want a taste too, pretty boy?"
Around them, inmates leaned forward eagerly.
They were waiting.
Waiting to see Davis crushed.
And when the beast was done, they would descend like vultures.
Davis smiled faintly, white teeth flashing.
"Only a man who gets excited over dogs would talk like that," he said lightly. "With your equipment? I doubt even a bitch would be impressed."
Silence detonated.
"What did you say?"
Jackson lunged.
Davis did not move away.
He caught the thick, veined arm mid-air.
There were no cinematic flourishes. No elaborate choreography.
When a man possesses real strength, he has no need for theatrics.
Davis's pale arm tightened.
The crack of bone echoed sharply across the cafeteria.
Jackson's massive limb twisted into an impossible angle — grotesque, almost artistic.
A reminder.
Davis was not prey.
With a slight shift of pressure, Jackson's balance collapsed. The giant dropped to one knee, posture reduced to something almost absurd.
Before he could recover—
Davis stepped forward.
Jackson's scream tore through the hall, raw and animal.
When Garcia forced his eyes open, the towering killer was curled inward, shaking violently, reduced to something smaller than the fear he once inspired.
"…Satisfied?" Davis asked quietly.
No one answered.
No one in Hills had ever humiliated Jackson so openly.
Arrogance formed the man's skeleton; elegance merely dressed it.
"You… bastard… even if you're Patricia and Robert's whore, I won't—"
Jackson's voice faltered under Davis's gaze.
Those sharp, slanted eyes held nothing theatrical — only cold calculation.
For him, this was restraint.
If not for the watching guards, there would have been far more blood.
The silence stretched.
Then Davis tilted his head thoughtfully.
"Do you believe in God?"
"What the hell are you talking about?!"
"Good."
Davis picked up a metal kettle from a nearby table. Steam coiled from its spout.
"From today onward, you'd better start."
The boiling water poured down.
Jackson's howl was no longer human.
"Pray sincerely," Davis said calmly over the screams. "Perhaps if God is pleased, He'll resurrect what you've so carelessly misused."
"F—!"
"I'm an atheist," Davis added conversationally. "First baptism I've ever performed. I'm still getting used to it."
Inmates turned away as his cold smile swept the room, unwilling to be chosen next.
"It's fine," he finished. "Practice makes perfect."
And with that, Davis returned to his seat.
He lifted his spoon and resumed eating his now-cold crimson soup as if nothing at all had happened.
Around him, Hills Prison had already begun to understand:
A new predator had entered the food chain.
And he wore elegance like a tailored suit.