5. WEIGHT OF ENTRY

Episode 5: Weight of Entry

Michael POV

I step out of the car and set foot in Blackridge, as the scorching sun burns through my skin, its aggressiveness raw and unyielding, pressing down on me like a punishment before I have even crossed the gates.

The guards lick their lips in anticipation, ready to welcome new prey into the dungeon of adversity, their eyes sharp and eager, while the gang members and bodybuilders inside the yard smile in anticipation like tigers waiting for antelopes to enter the arena.

The gates creak open, heavy and final, and for a brief second, the outside world feels like a memory already slipping away. Then I lock eyes with Ryan.

He looks troubled and has dark circles under his eyes, like a raccoon starved of sleep for ages, his face sharper than I remember, his body carrying so much weight.

“I am here to save you, Ryan. This system will burn under our feet,” I murmur under my breath, low enough for no one else to hear.

His stare is cold and distant, his lips holding back a thousand emotions, weighing unimaginable consequences.

“Move!” the guard barks, shoving me violently forward, but I ignore the humiliation and steady myself without reacting.

I cannot reveal my nature and intentions so quickly, not with eyes everywhere and danger breathing through every corner.

The hateful glare from the bodybuilders makes my skin crawl, their stares like judgment and scorn personified, heavy and suffocating, their tattoos telling stories of horror, blood spilled and purple patches marking survival and brutality as their watchword, but my scars hold something deeper—redemption and liberty, a hope of getting out of here alive.

One minute later, I am sent into the torturous bath of the cursed prison waters, the force of it shocking, the cold biting through my skin like claws, its grip relentless as it strips away whatever is left of comfort.

The water runs down my back, cold and unforgiving, and I can feel the eyes of others even here, measuring who is stronger and who will become prey.

“Bend down and pick up the soap!” someone commands, as another victim shivers in fear. I turn my eyes away from the sight of infidelity and brutality.

…………..

“Okay, people, step inside the door. Check yourself for bugs. Keep the line moving! No talking in line!!!” The announcement blasts loudly, ringing through my ears and lingering in my eardrums.

Then I see the man who reigns terror among inmates—Victor Hale, his presence heavy, his face holding a grudge I cannot understand, like he wakes up every day looking for someone to break.

“Name and bank number,” he questions impatiently.

“Michael Hale.”

“You a fanatic… are you a fanatic, Michael?”

“Never been one,” I reply calmly.

“You damn right, because even your God won’t help you here.”

I smile a bitter smile, one that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I don’t need God in here.”

He turns to me fully now, sizing me up from head to toe, slow and deliberate, his stare feeling like a threat, like he’s trying to peel me open and see what I’m made of.

But I give him nothing, not a flicker, not a crack. “Move!!!” he roars.

The guard pushes me forward into the checking room where the air feels tighter, filled with tension that never leaves.

Thirty minutes in, and the weight of this prison already presses heavily on my shoulders, like an unfulfilled promise, like a sentence spoken long before I arrive.

Then it happens fast and brutal, like a shift in the room that pulls attention like a magnet. A man rushes out of the shadows, desperately searching for answers.

I do not hear what they say to him, and seconds later, I watch his skull being crushed with a bowling hammer.

Nausea overwhelms me, but what is even more terrifying is the way the inmates roar in affirmation.

“Don’t let it spill!!”

“Another one down!!”

For a second, my mouth opens in horror and confusion, not just at the act, but at how comfortable everyone is, how quickly it happens, how easily violence breathes here.

The guards rush in, shouting, striking, dragging bodies apart, but the damage is already done, the blood already spreading across the floor.

“Life is cruel, Michael. Welcome to Blackridge Prison, son—the house, the deadly pit of the underworld,” my roommate smirks beside me, his voice carrying a strange calm, like he has watched scenes like this unfold every day.

He is an old man who sounds intellectual, his words measured, his eyes sharp in a way that does not match his age, and I wonder what he did to be put in this hellhole.

The night brings the most dreadful sleep of my life, restless and broken, the sheets cold and moist against my skin, the air heavy, thick with sounds that never fully fade.

I hear voices in my head. Claws and ghosts haunt me in my sleep, shadows moving in places they shouldn’t, memories of my sentencing echoing from the judge, thoughts of the gunshot in the cell attacking me.

Illusions and reality clash in my head. I hear the cries of people burning, drums banging in my skull. I see myself falling from the sky, endlessly, never reaching the ground.

Morning comes without mercy, harsh and immediate, dragging me out of what little rest I manage to find, and my roommate, Oliver, is already awake, already watching me like a guardian angel.

“What the fuck, man! Get down from the top! I take the upper, you stay below!” I roar at him in irritation.

“Alright, boss! You take the top.”

Immediately, I sit on his bed, and the stench engulfs me like a bad omen, that wicked odour spreading through the sheets.

“Oh gosh! Did you poop on the sheets?”

“I’ve masturbated a thousand times on it. The feeling keeps me afloat,” he replies shamelessly.

I quickly jump off the sheet. “Stick to your bed, and no more creepy stares at night!”

Morning comes with newbie baggage. Oliver shows me around the prison walls, his steps steady and his tone relaxed. He is clearly familiar with every turn and corner of Blackridge.

“That guy right there is Mateo Cruz, leader of the Kingsman gang. It is best to stay clear of him,” Oliver warns, his voice low but serious, and I follow his gaze to a man scarred in the face, his presence loud even without speaking, surrounded by men who move like extensions of him.

Oliver continues, introducing other gang leaders and dangerous men, including corrupt Victor Hale and his connection to Mateo.

I pay attention as my eyes scan the area, picking out the drainage system, the prison gutters, the fire extinguishers, the weak spots in the structure, the blind angles in movement, and several other key points in the prison. These spots look ordinary, places most would ignore, but I cannot afford to.

“Do you know a man called Ryan Carter?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral and sounding as natural as possible.

Oliver frowns slightly. “The man’s been a Ratel here, always getting into trouble with Mateo and Victor.”

“Why is that?” I ask, though part of me already expects the answer to be worse than I want to hear.

“The man killed the president’s brother. In a month, he’ll be getting electrocuted. He’s literally one of the most dangerous men in here. Man’s got nothing to lose. He’ll be dead before you even notice.”

As Oliver says these words, my heart shatters into a thousand pieces, sharp and sudden, but I try my best to conceal it. My face shows nothing; I cannot afford to.

“Who’s asking about Ryan?” a loud voice roars from behind us as a giant figure approaches me viciously.

His shadow stretches before him, his presence heavy with intent, the kind that promises trouble before a single hand is raised.