She paused, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "I hear that one of you—Mr. Blake—assaulted a police officer and made a joke of a federal prosecutor's offer of mercy. That kind of arrogance is a cancer here, and I cut out cancer quickly."

She looked directly at Ethan. "You think you're tough because you resisted a few county cops? I assure you, you are mistaken. We don't want you bleeding on the pristine floors, but you need a final warm-up before you meet your new roommates."

The Iron Lady nodded once to the guards surrounding them.

The guards immediately descended. They were professional, precise, and vicious. They targeted the soft tissue—the already bruised faces, the stomach, the thighs. Ethan instinctively shielded his face, taking the heaviest blows to his chest and sides, relying on his deep, protective Qi. He gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound, the skin on his torso proving miraculously resilient. Jason, however, cried out, his body already having taken too much punishment.

The beating was short, sharp, and intensely painful.

"That is a taste of respect, Blake," Captain Hayes said, watching impassively as the guards pulled them up. "Get them out of my sight. Separate cells. Throw them in the hole."

The pain of the final "warm-up" was sharp but faded quickly, thanks to the continuous surge of Qi mending the tissue beneath Ethan Blake's skin. He forced a series of pained gasps, feigning complete incapacitation. Jason, on the other hand, was genuinely broken, groaning weakly and unable to move anything but his head.

They were dragged separately through the final, dark corridors. Ethan focused on keeping his head down and his body language defeated.

[You know, they treated you like a dog,] the System chimed in, its voice dripping with mockery. [Perhaps a bit worse. They didn't even wash the dog with freezing water.]

Ethan thought "You took your sweet time coming to annoy me."

[I was enjoying the show,] the System replied smoothly. [I had a front-row seat to a lynching, so I didn't want to miss it.]

The dragging stopped. Ethan was pulled by the shackles and thrown roughly onto the concrete floor of a cell. The steel door slammed shut behind him.

Ethan lay still for a moment, letting the darkness swallow him. He could hear low chuckles above him. He slowly raised his head.

There were two men inside. They were huge, heavily muscled, and covered in intricate, fierce tattoos, clearly belonging to a powerful gang—likely Mexican or Salvadoran origin, based on the style and their demeanor. They grinned down at the new arrival, their eyes glinting with predatory amusement.

One of them spoke first, his voice gravelly and thick with mockery:

"Te rompieron tu madre he, gringo." (They broke your mother, huh, gringo.) said the inmate.

Ethan took in their appearance. Their tattoos were strikingly similar in design to those worn by Santiago, the former leader of the Dorchester Dukes. A plan, risky but necessary, formed instantly. Ethan had two choices: annihilate them and earn a reputation through immediate bloodletting, or leverage his contacts and gain two instant subordinates. Given his current shackled state and the prison environment, diplomacy was superior.

Ethan slowly lifted his head further, meeting their eyes.

"You talk like a friend of mine," Ethan said, his voice surprisingly clear in English. "Santiago. Do you know him? He's from the Dorchester Dukes."

The two inmates exchanged confused glances. They spoke quickly to each other in low Spanish.

"He's talking about your cousin," said one of the inmates to the other.

Ethan heard the confirmation and pressed his advantage.

"Yes, yes, your cousin," Ethan said. "Your cousin Santiago. He works for me now. We're at war with Celestial and Olympus, two large groups that dominate a big part of Boston. Do you know anything about them? Have you ever heard of them?"

The sudden claim wiped the smile off the inmates' faces. The taller one, clearly José, stepped forward, his massive arms crossed.

"I don't believe you," José said, switching to slightly accented English, his tone deadly serious now. "I know my cousin. He doesn't run risks. He runs the Dukes. And I know about those groups you mention—Celestial and Olympus. They are too far above our level. Santiago would never do anything so stupid as fight them."

"He didn't fight them alone," Ethan clarified, pushing himself up to a seated position against the wall. "He fought them as part of my organization. I dissolved the Dukes, José. All the gangs in the North End now work for me. We're a private security group now—we call ourselves The Royals. That's why Santiago is in the hospital; we fought a rival group. It's a different game now, cousin. A much bigger one."

Ethan stared José down. "You want proof? I can contact him right now. He'll vouch for me."

José paused. He didn't dare attempt violence. If this young boy was telling the truth—if he had truly managed to subdue all the Boston gangs, including the Dukes—touching him would be a death sentence delivered by the most powerful organization outside the walls. José was not stupid enough to gamble his life on a prison turf war.

"Wait here, muchacho," José said, his voice hesitant but respectful.

José walked to the cell door, cupped his hands, and yelled for a guard. When a guard approached, José made a quick, subtle hand signal—a flicker of fingers that spoke volumes about money and loyalty.

The guard eyed Ethan, then nodded curtly. "Five minutes, no funny business."

José walked out and was escorted to a small, secure consultation room. As he entered, a guard handed him a small, battered cell phone. "You know the drill. No jokes."

"Tranquilo, homes," José replied. "I don't play with my life."

José quickly dialed several numbers until someone answered—a friend of Santiago's, who was conveniently at the hospital. "Put my cousin on the phone. Now."

The power of words, not fists, had won Ethan Blake his first crucial moment of safety in Lexington.

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