Chapter 9: A Beautiful Violence

Quincy

After having spent a month here, I have come to realize that there's something deceptively peaceful about prison mornings. The serenity despite hostility. The quiet rustling of the thick trees in the woods nearby—a gentle reminder of the miles you are away from home.

It's Friday. The last day of June. Not like dates mattered anymore…it did though, but it's best to never count your days in here. For someone like me, I would feel the earth spinning so slowly—if I kept on counting like I did when I got in.

It's Friday morning. Yard workouts. Out of every activity we do in this for prison, this is the cream of the crop.

The yard was painted in muted light, sun barely warming the concrete, but the chill in the air did nothing to tame the beasts it enclosed. The tension in here had texture—you could breathe it in, taste the bitterness on your tongue, feel it settle heavy in your chest. But still, it remains the best place to be the cell. You're not trapped by four thick walls. Blackbridge Correctional Facility designed their walls to be thick. Quite soundproof. So if after screaming at the top of your lungs, you can just lie on your bed and pass out. No one cares. We wake up each day to walk on a thin rope called Survival, hoping it wouldn't snap.

I was done with my dumbbell reps, and doing quite a number of pushups. Now I'm standing close to the far wall, arms folded, back to the fence, far enough not to be involved in whatever nonsense the others were brewing—but close enough to keep an eye on my cellmate.

Just like a well decorated elephant in a circus, Jordan has his chest bare. His tanned skin milked just enough sweat he could use to wash the dirt off his hands.

He stood near the weights bench, shirt off, tattoos glistening with sweat. chest rising in a calm rhythm like he was meditating, not surrounded by criminals.

Speaking of his tattoos, he's got the weirdest tats I have seen on any guy. His back bore the most outrageous tattoos in the history of tattoos. His back looked like someone had lost a wrestling match with a possessed octopus holding a tattoo gun. From shoulder to shoulder, the ink sprawled like a chaotic crime scene—tribal swirls, demonic curls, and angry squiggles that might’ve once meant something, but now just screamed, “I don’t pay taxes and I bite.”

At first glance, it resembled ancient warrior markings. At second glance, it resembled the fever dream of a drunk artist with a grudge. The patterns wrapped around his muscles like they were trying to strangle him from the inside. And those cracks? Not stretch marks—oh no. These were the kind of inky fissures that made you wonder if his skin was about to open up and release a small demon named Jordan Jnr.

Okay, enough with ogling at those creep tattoos. I shifted my gaze to the rest of the prisoners.

Some guys were laughing, trading jokes. Some lifting. Some watching. But I saw it—the subtle shift—when my gaze circled on Jordan. Again.

It started when Roach approached.

Roach’s height never matches the troubles he exudes. He's short, so twitchy, always scratching something, always sweating like he owed his pores money. People called him Roach not just because of his hygiene but because like a cockroach, when stomped upon, never completely dies. He might lie on his back and play dead. He bounces back when he feels no one was watching. He’d been jumped, stabbed once, caught with stolen meds—and still came back like a damn zombie.

Roach walked with that little limp of his, arms swinging too much like he was trying too hard to be noticed.

And today, he was gunning for the wrong kind of attention.

He stopped near Jordan, stared too long, and smirked.

With his loud mouth, he was audible from that distance. It felt as though his attempt were to draw attention.

“Hey, Dawg.” His voice is guttural as he speaks to Jordan who had his focus on…on me.

Roach moved to plant himself in front of Jordan. I bet he had no idea the kind of trouble he's purchasing. Or maybe he does, but he doesn't care. Because he's a damn Roach. Cockroach.

“You think you’re the king around here, Vex?” His voice turned nasal, obnoxious after having got bi response from Jordan.

Jordan still didn’t avert his gaze from me. I hate the twist I get in my stomach whenever he does that. Fortunately, he went down for slow push-ups before Roach.

Roach stepped closer, real cocky now. “You think you scare people with all that pretty ink and street talk?”

Still, no reaction.

And then Roach did something stupid. Very stupid.

He stepped on Jordan’s foot.

It wasn’t even a stomp. Just a slow, deliberate press—like marking territory. Like saying, I own this moment.

And I knew. Right then.

Roach had bought himself a front-row ticket to hell.

Jordan froze mid-push-up.

He lifted his head slowly.

“You lost your fuckin’ mind?” Jordan asked, voice low, too calm. The Jordan that I had shared the same cell with for a couple of weeks will threaten you with a bright smile on his face. I was witnessing something different. Darker. It felt as though Jordan had expected Roach to act out of line. And the twat, Roach, delivered.

Roach grinned, scratching the side of his neck. “Nah. Just tired of your face.”

Jordan stood, towering Roach with probably two to three feets. He's a little too relaxed. His eyes—dead calm. But his fists? His fists curled tight enough to turn bone white.

“Seems like you're one hell of a fucker that never listen.” Jordan said. His voice etched with danger.

Roach snorted. “Tch, the fuck you, huh?” His words were followed by a shrug—a mushroom brushed slightly by the breeze. “Big Bad Jordan. You're nothing but a motherfuckin…”

Crack.

The sound of Jordan’s fist hitting Roach turned the heads of prisoners. If I had blinked my eyes before the impact, I would have missed it. The sound was sharp, clean, like someone snapping a thick branch.

Roach staggered back. Blood sprayed from his mouth like a busted pipe. He didn’t even have time to cover his face before Jordan grabbed his collar and slammed him against the yard wall.

“What were you saying?” Jordan growled. Nose flaring. Jaws gritting. “C'mon dwarf man, speak!”

Roach coughed blood, muttering something unintelligible.

Jordan hit him again.

And again.

And again.

I couldn’t look away.

The punches didn’t slow—they got faster. More brutal. He wasn’t just fighting Roach. He was destroying him. Painting his damn face with his own blood. Every strike landed with the kind of rage that had been simmering for years—centuries maybe.

The inmates left their business to partner with the one stewing, gathered like it was some gladiator spectacle. Some cheered. Some laughed. Some egged him on.

I stayed back.

Frozen.

Not because I couldn’t help.

But because I wouldn’t.

I wasn’t going to risk my six-month sentence for a guy like Jordan. No matter how many times he tossed me protein bars or defended me with that wolfish loyalty of his, I was not about to lose everything for him.

I stayed rooted. Heart pounding. Hands in fists.

“Get him, Vex!” someone yelled.

“Finish him!”

Roach was barely standing now. He tried to crawl away, fingers scraping the gravel, leaving streaks of red like brushstrokes. But Jordan wasn’t done.

He knelt over him, grabbed Roach by the shirt and whispered something in his ear—something low, something that made Roach flinch harder than the fists.

Then Jordan’s hand went up.

And came down.

Hard.

Flesh on bone. Blood and spit flew.

Again.

And again.

I couldn’t breathe. My stomach twisted. My eyes burned.

Jordan had lost it.

Whatever was holding him together had snapped like a dry twig under pressure. There was no control, no mercy, just rage—raw and primal.

And it scared me.

It scared the hell out of me.

Because this wasn’t just violence.

This was art.

This was Jordan’s cathedral.

His ritual.

His release.

I finally saw the truth:

Jordan wasn’t in prison.

He was part of it.

And it welcomed him with open arms.

Just when I thought he was about to kill Roach—just when Roach’s hand stopped moving entirely—the guards stormed in.

“On the ground! ON THE FUCKING GROUND!”

The yard scattered. Inmates stepped back like the scene was fire and they didn’t want to get burned.

Jordan dropped Roach like used tissue.

Stood slowly.

Lifted his hands.

Bloodied. Battered.

And smiled.

One of the guards cuffed him roughly, shoving him down to his knees.

Roach lay there, unconscious, or worse. His face… God, his face was a crater. His nose didn’t look like a nose anymore. One of his eyes had swollen shut so completely it looked melted. Blood had pooled under his cheek like a shadow.

They dragged Jordan up and shoved him toward the exit.

He passed me.

We locked eyes for a fraction of a second. My stomach did a flip. A fast, rough flip.

His lips were split. His brow was gashed. But those damn eyes…

They were bright. Wild.

Alive.

Like he’d just come back from a different world.

And I hated it.

Because part of me respected it.

Because part of me understood it.

The guards led him away.

And I was left standing in the yard, surrounded by cheering murderers and rapists, with a chill in my bones that wouldn’t go away.

Jordan Vex wasn’t a mystery anymore.

He was an apocalypse wearing skin.

And I had to sleep eight feet above him. Or maybe beg to be thrown into another cell.