I woke up feeling shit.

Hadn't really slept. Just lay there staring at Flaco's mattress springs, running it over and over. Rochelle's face. Danny's knife. Seven times. Maybe more. Lost count after seven.

Unborn Jamal dying with her.

Morning count came at six. Flaco dropped down from the upper bunk, looked at me.

Knowing better than to push.

We stood at the cell door. Guard walked past with his clipboard. Checked faces, moved on. Whole tier, same routine. Count cleared. Breakfast call.

I couldn't eat.

Sat in the common area with a tray of something that might've been eggs. Pushed it around with my plastic fork. Flaco ate his portion, watched me not eating mine.

"You sick?" he asked.

"Nah. Just not hungry."

"You're never not hungry. This place feeds us shit and you still eat." He leaned closer. Lowered his voice. "That Danny job go bad?"

I looked at him. Flaco's dark eyes, concerned. He'd been my cellie for a year now. Knew me better than most people. Could read when something was wrong.

"It went weird," I said.

"Weird how?"

"Can't talk about it." I stood up. Dumped my untouched tray in the garbage. "Client confidentiality."

Flaco didn't look convinced. But he didn't push it either. That was the thing about Flaco—he knew when to leave shit alone.

I walked back to Cell 47. Sat on my bunk. Stared at my hands.

Same hands that'd taken Danny's twenty bucks yesterday morning. Blood money. That's what it was. I'd taken blood money to check if a murderer's weapon was still hidden.

My stomach twisted.

Library cart day. Wednesday. Gibbins showed up at 7:30, keys jangling, phone already out.

"Let's go, O'Reilly. Books to deliver."

I loaded the cart. Started pushing it through 3-Alpha. Going through the motions. Inmates browsing, exchanging books, whispering requests I barely registered.

Couldn't focus.

Rochelle's face kept flashing behind my eyes. The fear. The silent scream through that thick glass. The knife going in. Again. Again. Again.

"Thor."

I looked up. Marcus "Books" Washington stood there. Observant as hell.

"You look troubled, young brother," he said.

"I'm fine."

"Liar." Slight smile. Not cruel. Just honest. "But that's your business. Just remember—guilt's a teacher if you let it be. Destroyer if you don't."

He walked away before I could respond.

I stood there with the cart. Inmates waiting. Gibbins scrolling his phone fifteen feet back.

Guilt.

Yeah. That's what this was.

Guilt for taking the job. Guilt for not knowing what Danny really wanted. Guilt for witnessing murder and not doing anything yet. Not deciding what to do.

The cart felt heavier as I pushed it toward 2-Beta.

Lunch came. Common area. I sat alone, staring at my tray.

Everything lukewarm and tasteless.

Danny walked past my table.

Casual. Easy stride. That charming smile still in place. Nodded at me. One eyebrow raised. Question there.

You got my answer?

I looked down at my tray. Didn't respond.

He kept walking. Didn't push it. Not yet. Saturday. That's when he'd expect his full report. Yard time. Public enough to be safe, private enough to talk business.

Three days away.

What was I going to tell him?

The options ran through my head on repeat. Had been running since I snapped back into my body last night.

Option one: Lie. Say I couldn't project that far. Failed the job. Give him his twenty bucks back.

But he'd know something was wrong. I'd done outside projections before. Reputation said I could. Why would this one fail?

Option two: Tell the truth. "Yeah, your stash is still there. Knife's hidden in the balcony overhang, fifteenth floor, right where you left it after you murdered your pregnant girlfriend."

Watch his face. See if he'd try to kill me right there. Or send someone later. Shower room. Shank between the ribs. Witch who knew too much.

Option three: Avoid him. Refuse to report. Keep the twenty. Hope he let it slide.

Danny wouldn't let it slide. Nobody forgot debts here. Grudges lasted longer than sentences.

Option four.

The one I'd been trying not to think about.

Report him. Anonymous tip to Crimestoppers. Tell them exactly where the knife was hidden. Let cops find it, dust it for prints, connect it to the murder.

Get Danny charged with what he actually did.

Double murder. Rochelle and unborn Jamal.

But snitching—Jesus Christ. Snitching was a death sentence. You got caught; you were done. Beaten. Raped. Murdered. Maybe all three.

Even if nobody ever knew it was me. Even if I was perfect about it. The risk was enormous.

I pushed my tray away. Stood up. Walked back to my cell.

Flaco was at some GED class. Cell 47 was empty. Just me and the concrete walls and the toilet that never stopped smelling like piss no matter how much bleach they used.

I sat on my bunk. Put my head in my hands.

Rochelle's face. The fear in her eyes. Backing away from Danny. Hands up, trying to protect her belly. Trying to protect Jamal.

Didn't matter. Danny had killed them both anyway.

And then he'd hidden the knife. Cleaned up. Changed clothes probably. Made it all disappear. Got arrested for some grievous bullshit bar fight weeks later. Assault charge from hell when the guy died. Eight years. Clean record before that. Just one stupid night that cost him everything.

Except it wasn't one stupid night.

It was calculated. Cold. Premeditated murder, then a cover story, then six months of waiting to see if his hiding spot held.

And he'd used me to check.

Twenty dollars.

That's what I was worth. What Rochelle was worth. What Jamal was worth.

Twenty fucking dollars.

Afternoon yard time. I stood by the fence. Alone. Watching the factions cluster in their territories. Brotherhood at the weights. Latin Kings near the basketball court. Black Kingsmen scattered in smaller groups.

Danny was out there somewhere. Playing cards probably. Telling stories. Charming everyone like he always did.

With that smile that never quite reached his eyes.

He'd told me Jamal was eight months old. Alive. Healthy. Beautiful kid.

All lies.

Jamal had died six months ago. Maybe more. Died in Rochelle's womb when Danny's knife went in.

Never born. Never had a chance. Never drew breath.

I thought about Connor. My brother. His daughter—my niece. She was four now. Maybe five soon. Growing up without Uncle Thor because I'd been stupid enough to trust Marco. Stupid enough to drive that car without asking questions.

Ten years for accessory to armed robbery.

Connor sent letters sometimes. Asked how I was doing. Said he missed me. Said his daughter asked about me.

I'd fucked up. Made bad choices. Trusted the wrong person. And now I was here.

But at least my fuck-up was honest. I really didn't know Marco had a gun. Really didn't know what we were doing. I was just a dumb kid who didn't ask questions.

Danny knew exactly what he was doing.

Planned it. Executed it. Covered it up. And now he was walking around Central North like he was the victim. Poor Danny, locked up for a bar fight. Poor Danny, can't reach his girlfriend. Poor Danny, so worried about his baby.

Bullshit. All of it.

The rage hit me so hard I had to grab the chain-link fence to stay standing.

"Thor."

I turned. Werner "The Dane" Kowalski. Six-one, muscular, blonde beard neatly trimmed. The guy who'd stopped them from raping me in the shower a year ago.

Not out of kindness. Out of strategy.

"Werner," I said.

He stood next to me at the fence. Casual. Like we were friends. We weren't friends. We had an arrangement.

"You look like shit," he said. "Bad week?"

"Just tired."

"Yeah?" His blue eyes studied me. Assessing. "You getting sick? Can't have our investment falling apart."

Investment. That's what I was. Not a person. Not a brother. An asset that generated value.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Good." Werner leaned against the fence. Relaxed posture, but I could feel the purpose underneath. "Because it's that time again. Rent's due."

Fuck.

I'd forgotten. Too focused on Rochelle's face. Danny's knife. The murder I couldn't unsee.

"Yeah," I said. "Okay."

"Two weeks' worth," Werner said. "Been a good run for you, right? Library cart. Lots of clients. El Bruja's making good money."

I had been making good money. Until I split it fifty-fifty with the Brotherhood.

"How much?" I asked.

Werner smiled. Thin. "You tell me. How much did you pull in the last two weeks?"

I ran the numbers. Petersen's spell—fifteen bucks. Wicks's curse—thirty bucks commissary credit. A couple protection sigils for independents—ten bucks each. Danny's job—twenty, but fuck if I was counting that anymore.

Sixty-five total. Maybe seventy if I counted some smaller work.

"Seventy," I said.

"Seventy." Werner nodded. "So, thirty-five for the Brotherhood. Call it forty to keep the math clean."

Forty dollars. More than half my take for two weeks of work.

"That's more than half," I said.

"That's the deal." Werner's voice stayed pleasant. Friendly, even. But the steel underneath was clear. "You get Brotherhood protection. Nobody fucks with you. Nobody shakes you down. Nobody takes your commissary. Nobody rapes you in the shower. You work in peace, make your money, build your reputation."

He paused. Let that sink in.

"We get our cut," he continued. "Fair exchange. Unless you'd rather go independent?"

Independence meant dead. Meant the next shower was my last. Meant every meal was a potential beating. Meant I'd be someone's bitch within a week.

"No," I said. "Deal's fair."

"Good." Werner's smile widened slightly. "So, forty bucks. Commissary credit works too. You can transfer it to Axel's account when we get back inside."

Forty dollars. Two weeks of degrading work. Drawing sigils in blood. Exhausting myself with astral projection. Taking jobs I didn't want to think about too hard.

And half of it went to the Brotherhood.

No. More than half.

"Okay," I said.

"You're a good earner, Thor." Werner clapped me on the shoulder. Friendly. Possessive. "Keep it up. More clients, more money. More money, more value. More value, more protection."

"Yeah."

"You alright?" Werner's eyes narrowed slightly. "You seem off today."

"Just tired," I repeated. "Didn't sleep well."

"Bad dreams?"

"Something like that."

Werner studied me for another moment. Then shrugged. "Get some rest. Can't have you burning out. You're too valuable."

Valuable. Not valued. There was a difference.

He walked away. Back toward the weight pile where the rest of the Brotherhood waited.

I stood there. Gripping the fence. Watching him go.

Forty dollars for two weeks of work. Gone. Just like that. Protection tax. Rent for staying alive.

And Danny was out there somewhere, laughing with his crew, thinking he'd gotten away with murder.

Thinking his stash was safe.

Thinking nobody knew.

The rage settled into something colder. Harder.

I knew what I had to do.

And I was going to do it.

Even if it killed me.

Personal shit, Danny had called it.

Yeah. Real fucking personal.

Evening. Count at six. Dinner at six-thirty.

I forced myself to eat this time. Needed the calories. Needed the energy. Had to look normal. Had to not draw attention.

Flaco sat across from me. Didn't ask questions. Just ate his food and occasionally glanced my way. Checking on me without being obvious about it.

Good friend. Real friend. The kind of guy who'd have your back if you asked.

But I couldn't ask. Couldn't tell him. Because if this went sideways—if someone found out I'd snitched—they might think Flaco helped. Might go after him too.

I had to keep him out of it.

This was mine alone.

Danny walked past our table again. Paused this time. Looked down at me.

"Saturday," he said. Quiet. Just to me. "Yard time. You'll have something for me?"

I met his eyes. Those intense eyes that'd watched Rochelle die. That'd counted the stabs. That'd hidden the evidence without a second thought.

"Yeah," I said. "I'll have something."

He smiled. Grateful. Relieved. "Appreciate it, brother."

He walked away.

Flaco watched him go. "You sure about whatever you're doing?"

"No," I said. Honest for once. "But I'm doing it anyway."

Lights out at ten.

I lay on my bunk. Flaco snoring softly above me. The tier settling into its night sounds. Doors slamming distant. Someone crying. Someone else shouting threats. Normal prison symphony.

I stared at the ceiling.

Two days until Saturday. Two days to figure out how to report Danny without getting killed for it.

Two days to become a snitch and somehow survive.

The choice had already crystallized. Somewhere between lunch and yard time. Between seeing Danny's smile and remembering Rochelle's fear.

I was going to report him.

Children were my line. Didn't even know I had that line until the Petersen job. Made my skin crawl just being near his cell. But he'd paid good money for that spell. Fifteen bucks. And I'd done it.

Used his semen. Drew the sigils. Activated the working.

Felt dirty for days.

That's when I learned. Some things were worth more than money. Some lines you didn't cross.

Children were my line.

And Danny had killed an unborn child. Stabbed through Rochelle to get to Jamal. Murdered them both in cold blood.

That crossed every line I had.

Every line I didn't even know I had until I saw it happen.

So yeah. I was going to snitch. Going to call Crimestoppers. Going to tell them exactly where that knife was hidden. Going to make sure Danny Keyes paid for what he did to Rochelle Martinez and their son Jamal.

Even if it killed me.

At least I'd go down knowing I'd done the right thing. At least Connor could tell his daughter someday that Uncle Thor wasn't just a fuckup. That he'd tried to be better. That he'd drawn a line and stood by it.

Even when it cost him everything.

My hands weren't shaking anymore.

Decision made. Acceptance settled in. Fear still there—wouldn't go away—but underneath it, something solid. Something like purpose.

I closed my eyes.

Sleep still didn't come easy. But eventually it came.

And when I woke up Friday morning, I knew exactly what I had to do.