Inside the gulag, the air was damp and heavy with smoke, sweat, and the slow rot of decades-old cement. Steel bars ran down corridors like ribcages, locking in thousands of inmates from every corner of the globe.
Languages clashed in the halls, Russian, English, Arabic, Mandarin, Spanish, none of them friendly. The glow from the overhead fluorescents flickered like they were blinking, too tired to stay awake.
Guards in full riot armor patrolled catwalks overhead, rifles slung low, expressions dead. Security cameras hung from ceilings like vultures, red lights blinking with silent judgment. The screams of new arrivals echoed from intake chambers. Somewhere down a corridor, a fight broke out—cheers followed, then silence. Order was a myth here; survival was the law.
The man finished the last puff of his cigar as he stepped into his cell, grinding it out in the rusted metal sink. Behind him, Joe peeled off wordlessly and took his post outside the cell door, a brick wall in human form. His arms folded. Eyes sharp. Loyal.
Another man joined him, not as tall, but with a fighter's stance and weather-worn face. Frank.
"Frank's back, boss," Joe said without turning his head. "How'd it go?"
"Without a hitch," Frank replied, lifting a fat stack of bills wrapped tight in a rubber band. "Good call on this, by the way. Where the heck did you find that kid?"
"Heard some whispers in P-block," Joe said, "Some lunatic who never backs down. Doesn't even flinch when you hit him."
Frank gave a low whistle. "Nice going big guy." He tapped Joe's arm with the bills and stepped inside the cell.
It wasn't just any cell, it was the cell. A stark contrast to the rows of cramped, freezing boxes everyone else called home. This one had space. Privacy. A real bed, not a rusted bunk. The wall held a small shelf with a radio, a stack of well-thumbed Hustler magazines, and even a few bottles of expensive vodka tucked neatly into the corner. A coat rack held a fur-lined jacket, imported. A cracked mirror on the wall reflected a man who wasn't just surviving in here. He was thriving.
Frank handed over the cash. "It's all here. Ten thousand, cash."
The boss, slim, well-groomed, his prison uniform so clean it practically shimmered, nodded and took it. He knelt beside the bed and pulled out an old supply crate. The latches popped open with a clack, revealing a neatly packed treasure trove, stacks of bills just like the ones in his hand, half a million, easy.
He tossed the fresh stack in without blinking and shut the case with a heavy thunk.
"Joe?" the man said, not even needing to explain.
"Already got Tony and the boys on it sir. They're heading to the infirmary as we speak."
The boss smirked. His silver watch gleamed in the dull light as he adjusted the collar of his prisons garbs
"Good man," he said, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "I guess I better freshen up for our guest huh?"
A group of five men strolled through the prison halls, unbothered and unescorted. No guards stopped them, they didn't need permission, not in the prison. They reached the infirmary and barged through the door without so much as a knock.
Anya sighed heavily, glancing up from where she was tending to Cassian's bandaged ribs. "Does nobody knock anymore?"
"Hey toots," one of the men sneered. "Put the gauze away. He's coming with us."
"You're out of your minds," Anya snapped. "If he moves right now, he could die."
"Not our problem," another grunted. "Boss said bring him, so we bring him. Now move, before someone gets hurt."
"Take another step and I swear…" Anya grabbed a scalpel from a nearby tray, brandishing it like a dagger. Her hand trembled slightly, but her eyes were steel.
"Easy, sweetheart," the lead thug smirked. "You're gonna hurt yourself with that thing."
He lunged forward, trying to disarm her, but she was quicker than he expected. The scalpel sliced across his forearm, leaving a deep, bleeding gash.
"You crazy little—!" he roared, and with a snarl, he backhanded her hard across the face. Anya crashed to the floor, knocking over a tray of medical supplies with a loud clatter.
"Jeez man," one of the other men said, hesitating. "We're not supposed to lay hands on the staff. Remember what happened to Eric?"
"I don't give a shit!" the first one barked, cradling his bleeding arm.
"This bitch just cut me! Far as I'm concerned, she's fair game now. It's not like anyone's gonna know when I'm done with her anyway. It's about time a real man put you in your place you little russian whore."
Anya groaned, clutching her cheek, her nurses cap lost somewhere when she fell, hair hanging in front of her face as she tried to push herself upright.
"Lock the door," the bleeding man ordered as he began to remove his pants. One of the others obeyed, turning the lock and standing in front of the entrance.
The leader turned back toward Anya, looming over her. ""Now how's about you and me get to know eachother a little better babe" he said, now down to his underwear with his trousers around his ankle.
What he didn't realize… was that the air had changed.
He froze.
Something felt off.
He turned his head toward the infirmary bed, only to see it empty.
"What the—?"
Cassian emerged like a ghost from behind the curtain, silent and fast. In one explosive motion, he struck the man clean across the jaw, sending him flying back into the three men standing behind him. They stumbled like dominoes, crashing into the wall
The movement came at a cost, Cassian's stitches tore open violently. He felt his ribs shift and grind, the pain screaming through his nerves like wildfire. Blood spewed from his mouth, thick and dark, splattering across the floor.
The man guarding the door tried to react, but he was far too slow, even against a bloodied and beaten Cassian.
Cass spun in a tight arc, grabbed the collar of the man's shirt, and with a surge of raw rage, flipped him over his shoulder. The thug hit the ground hard with a crunch, and before he could groan, Cassian's fist came down like a hammer, silencing him in one brutal strike.
"Woah, dude, chill!" one of the remaining men raised his hands defensively, panic in his voice. "We just wanted to talk!"
Cassian didn't stop. He didn't listen.
As far as he was concerned, anyone who put hands on a woman forfeited the right to keep theirs.
He took a slow, limping step forward, his blood-soaked body heaving with each breath.
"So…" he muttered, eyes narrowing on the group, "you like to hit women?"
"What? No- I didn't even touch her!" the man said, pointing frantically at the one now sprawled unconscious on the floor. "That was him! You've already put him to sleep! What more do you want?!"
Cassian held up three bloodied fingers.
"Huh?"
"Three fingers," he said coldly. "I'll be taking them."
He stepped forward again, dragging one foot slightly as he advanced.
"You're insane! You're not gonna do a single thing, do you know who we work fo-"
Cassian silenced the man mid-sentence with a lightning-fast punch to the throat. The thug dropped like a sack of bricks, gagging, eyes bulging as he clutched at his windpipe and writhed on the ground.
"Stop! Please!" Anya's voice rang out through the room, sharp and trembling, slicing through the haze of Cassian's rage.
He froze mid-step, bloodied fists clenched, knuckles cracked and raw. His chest rose and fell with shallow, pained breaths. Slowly, he turned his head.
She was still on the floor, her white uniform stained red, hair tousled, cheek flushed with a harsh red mark. But her eyes… those perfect brown eyes stared up at him, soft, scared, pleading.
Cassian's jaw tensed. His fingers curled even tighter into his palms until they shook.
But then he exhaled, slow and ragged.
"Leave! Now!" he growled, voice low and guttural. "And take your trash with you!"
The two remaining conscious thugs didn't argue. Not now. Not after what they'd seen.
One scrambled to his feet, the other already dragging the unconscious bodies of his comrades across the floor. They moved fast, silent, bruised and humiliated, hauling the others out by their arms and legs like bags of broken meat.
The heavy clunk of the door closing behind them echoed like a full stop.
Cassian finally allowed himself to breathe.
And with that breath came the full weight of the day's events.
His knees gave out beneath him, and he collapsed in front of Anya, hitting the cold infirmary floor with a heavy, final thud. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as his body gave in.
Anya didn't even move at first. She sat there in stunned silence, a hand gently touching the bruise on her cheek.
Then she looked down at the unconscious man in front of her, this blood-soaked, broken monster of a man… who still somehow looked like a lost child in that moment.
She sighed.
"I really need to find new job."