I knew it was real the second time I saw Gustav.

Not Guard Gustav—he was in the hospital, skull fractured, spine damaged, exactly like I'd visualized. No, I'm talking about seeing the moment it happened. The fall. The crack. The tumble.

It came to me in my sleep. Not a dream. Something else. Clearer than memory, more vivid than imagination. I watched it unfold from above, like I was floating in the Pit, observing.

Gustav walking down the metal stairs. Coffee in hand. Keys jangling. Mid-step, his foot catches. No reason. Just catches. Like something invisible reached out and hooked his ankle.

He pitches forward. Coffee arcs through the air, splashes on concrete four stories down. His hands grab for the railing. Too slow. Head cracks against metal. I heard it. Wet, final, terrible.

He tumbles. Three steps. Four. Lands at the bottom in a heap.

I woke up gasping.

Flaco stirred on the upper bunk. "You good, hermano?"

"Yeah," I lied. "Bad dream."

But it wasn't a dream. It was a replay. A confirmation.

I'd done that. Somehow. Impossibly. I'd made it happen.

I went to the infirmary that morning like a man walking to his execution.

Kraus was worse. Skin grey, eyes sunken deeper. The smell had intensified—death wasn't weeks away anymore. Maybe days.

"You understand now," he said when I sat down. Not a question.

"I saw it. Again. Last night."

"Gut. The magic shows you its work. Confirmation. Proof." He coughed, wet and phlegmy. Patricia had left a basin by the bed. He spit into it. Dark red. "You want to know how."

"Yeah."

"I witched you up." Kraus's voice was weaker today. Fading. "Three days I touched your marks. Spoke the words. Opened the channels in your blood. Made you... receptive. Malleable. A vessel."

"For what?"

"For power I cannot take with me." He gestured weakly at his dying body. "Eighty-three years I have practiced die Magie. Chaos magic, they call it now. Aleister Crowley's bastard child. Use what works, discard what doesn't. No dogma. No rules. Only will and belief and blood."

I didn't say anything. Just listened.

"I am dying. This is certain. But the power—" He tapped his temple. "—it does not die with me if I pass it on. If I find a worthy vessel. Someone with the marks. Someone desperate. Someone who will use it."

"You're giving me your magic?"

"Gave, boy. Past tense." Kraus smiled. Terrible expression on a dying face. "Three days ago, when you visualized Gustav falling, when you poured rage into that vision—you used my power. Or your power now. The distinction is meaningless. It is yours."

My hands started shaking. "I don't want it."

"Zu spät. Too late." He coughed again. More blood. "Power does not ask permission. It simply is. You have it. You used it. You will use it again."

"What if I refuse? What if I just—walk away? Never come back?"

Kraus laughed. Wet, rattling, horrible sound that turned into choking. I grabbed the basin, held it while he spit blood and phlegm. When he finished, his eyes were bright with tears and something else. Amusement, maybe. Or contempt.

"Then you waste the gift. And you die ignorant and powerless. Brotherhood withdraws protection. Shower, probably. Or the yard. Or your cell at night. Does not matter. Dead is dead." He wiped his mouth with a skeletal hand. "But you will not walk away. You are too smart. Too desperate. You tasted power. You will want more."

He was right. I hated that he was right.

"How does it work?" I asked.

"Ja. Good question. Finally." Kraus settled back into the pillows. "Magic is will made manifest. You want something. You believe it will happen. You channel that want through symbols—runes, sigils, words. The symbols are not the power. You are. The symbols are just... how you say... a focusing lens."

"That's it? Want something, believe it, make it happen?"

"Simple, ja? But not easy." He raised a finger. Skeletal, trembling. "Belief is the engine. Doubt is the brake. Most people cannot truly believe. They hope. They wish. They pretend. But belief? Absolute certainty? Rare. You had it with Gustav because you were desperate. Furious. Need creates belief."

I thought about that moment. Kraus's hands on my wrist. His voice guiding me. Seeing Gustav fall so clearly it felt real.

"You said there are words. Symbols. What are they for if I'm the power?"

"Structure. Tradition. Psychology." Kraus's breathing was getting labored. "The words focus your mind. The symbols trigger associations in your blood. Blood memory, old knowledge encoded in your ancestors. The runes—Algiz, Hagalaz, Thurisaz—they are not just pictures. They are keys unlocking doors in your consciousness."

"I don't understand."

"Not yet. But you will learn." He closed his eyes. "I have books. Knowledge. Hidden. When I die, you will find them. Or you will figure it out yourself. Chaos magic allows both. Use whatever works."

"Where are the books?"

"Close. But I will not tell you." Kraus's lips curved into a smile. "You must seek. You must work. Easy gifts are worthless. Earned knowledge is power."

Cryptic old bastard.

"How long?" I asked.

"Days. Maybe one week if I am lucky. Or unlucky, depending on view." He opened his eyes. Fixed me with that sharp blue stare. "You will come every day. Change my diaper. Listen to my rambling. And I will teach you what I can. The rest you must learn yourself."

"And if I screw up? If the magic—goes wrong?"

"Then you suffer consequences. Magic is not a vending machine. You put in quarters, you get candy. No. Magic is a conversation with reality. You speak, reality listens. Sometimes it agrees. Sometimes it laughs. Sometimes it takes payment you did not offer." He paused. "Gustav fell. This is what you wanted. But if you had doubted—if belief faltered—magic could have rebounded. Could have been you on those stairs."

Christ.

"So every spell is a risk?"

"Every spell is a negotiation. Yes." Kraus's eyes drifted closed. "Now go. I am tired. Come back tomorrow. We will discuss protection magic. You will need it soon."

Kraus died two days later.

I'd changed his diaper that morning—routine now, still degrading but bearable. He'd rambled for an hour about sigils, about Algiz and Thurisaz, about the difference between protection and attack magic. His voice kept fading, coming back, fading again.

"Power needs direction," he'd said. "Protection magic—Algiz, the elk's antler—it deflects. Creates barriers. Strongest defense is not attack. Is boundary. Is wall that says 'no further.'" He grabbed my wrist. Weaker than before. "You will need this. Soon. Brotherhood will test you."

"I'm already sitting with you. That's the deal."

"The deal was protection in exchange for respect. But respect is not enough for some. They will want more. Want proof. Want you to be truly one of them." His grip tightened. Surprising strength in dying fingers. "When they come, you invoke. You call on Thor—the god, not you—and you demand protection. Demand it. Believe it. Make it so."

"How?"

"Words. Will. Blood if necessary." He let go of my wrist. "The gods listen to those who honor them. Your marks honor Thor. He will answer if you truly need him."

Then his breathing changed. Got shallow. Rattled.

Patricia noticed first. Came over with her stethoscope, checked his pulse, his breathing. Looked at me.

"Go get a guard. Tell them Kraus is actively dying."

I did. Found Officer Gibbins scrolling his phone in the hallway. Told him. He barely looked up.

"I'll make the call. You go back to your cell."

"But I'm supposed to—"

"Not anymore. Medical emergency protocol. Inmates clear out. Now."

I went back to 3-Alpha. Sat in Cell 47. Waited.

Two hours later, announcement over the PA: "Inmate Gustav Kraus, number 18394, has expired. Notify all tiers."

The tier went quiet. Brotherhood members looked at each other. Some nodded. Some looked angry. Kraus had been one of theirs for forty years. An elder. A link to the old country, the old ways, the real thing before it all became prison politics and trailer park swastikas.

Werner found me in the common area during afternoon yard time.

"The Old Man's gone," I said before he could speak.

"I know." Werner's face was hard. "You were supposed to care for him."

"I did. Three weeks. Changed his diaper. Listened to his rambling. Showed respect." I met his eyes. "He was eighty-three with pancreatic cancer. He died. I changed his diaper."

Werner stared at me. Weighing. Calculating.

"Axel wants to see you."

Shit.

Axel sat at a table in the west common area. Brotherhood territory. Werner brought me over, gestured for me to sit. I did.

Garrett "Chains" Holbrook stood behind Axel. Big guy, forty-something, covered in white power tattoos. Looked like he wanted to snap my neck. Kyle "Brick" Morrison was there too. And Dylan Schafer. The shower crew.

I was surrounded.

"You sat with Kraus," Axel said. Voice calm. Emotionless.

"Yeah."

"And he died."

"He was dying when I got there. Pancreatic cancer. Patricia said three weeks. He lasted two and a half."

"Did he say anything? Before he died?"

Lots of things. Magic is real. Power is yours. The runes chose you. You're a vessel for an eighty-three-year-old Nazi occultist's chaos magic legacy.

"He rambled a lot. German, mostly. Some English. Talked about the old country. The old gods. Didn't make much sense."

Axel studied me. "Did he give you anything?"

"No."

"Nothing? No books? No papers? No... knowledge?"

I kept my face neutral. "Just ramblings. Like I said."

Brick leaned in. "Kid's lying."

"Maybe," Axel said. "Or maybe Kraus just died before he could pass anything on." He leaned back. "Either way, you fulfilled your obligation. Sat with a dying elder. Showed respect. Brotherhood honors its agreements."

Relief started spreading through my chest.

Then Axel added: "But we want confirmation."

"Confirmation of what?"

"That you understand what it means to be under Brotherhood protection. What it requires." Axel's eyes were cold. "You will be in your cell tonight. Alone. We will test your commitment."

My stomach dropped.

"Test how?"

"You'll see." Axel stood. Everyone stood. "Count at ten. Lights out at eleven. Don't leave your cell."

They walked away.

Werner glanced back. Something in his expression—pity? warning? Regret?

I went back to Cell 47. Flaco was there, packing his stuff.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Transfer. Temporary. Different tier for tonight." He looked uncomfortable. "Administrative shit. Happens sometimes."

"Bullshit. They're moving you so I'm alone."

"Yeah, probably." Flaco grabbed his property box. "Listen, hermano—whatever happens tonight, don't fight it. If you fight, they'll kill you. If you submit, you live. That's the math."

"Submit to what?"

But I knew. I fucking knew.

Flaco left. I was alone in Cell 47.

Count at ten PM happened normally. Guard checked my face against his clipboard. Moved on.

Lights out at eleven.

I lay on the lower bunk, staring at the ceiling. Every sound was them coming. Every footstep in the tier. Every door opening. Every voice.

This was it. This was the test. Brotherhood was coming. Brick. Dylan. Werner. Maybe all of them.

Rape, probably. Beating for sure. Proof that I was owned. That I was theirs. That I understood my place.

I could submit. Like Flaco said. Live through it. Become whatever broken thing they needed me to be.

Or I could fight. And die. Quick if I was lucky. Slow if I wasn't.

Or—

Kraus's voice in my head: When they come, you invoke. You call on Thor and you demand protection.

Magic. Real magic. I'd used it once. Made Gustav fall. Maybe I could use it again.

Maybe.

I sat up. Looked at my forearms in the dim light from the tier. Vegvisir. Yggdrasil. Thor's hammer. Runes I couldn't read but carried anyway.

The marks chose you.

I'd never prayed before. Not really. Catholic school when I was seven, sure, but that was just words. This was different. This was desperation made into belief. Need made absolute.

I put my hands on the cell bars. Cold metal under my palms.

"Thor." I whispered it first. Then louder. "Thor. God of protection. God of strength."

Nothing happened. The tier was quiet.

"I got your name. I got your symbols. I got your hammer inked into my skin." I closed my eyes. Poured everything into it. Fear, rage, need. "Please. Please. Keep them out. Make these bars strong. Make this door impossible. Protect me."

The air got heavy. Or I imagined it did. Hard to tell when you're terrified.

"Odin. Tyr. Heimdall. Freya." I named them all. Every god I could remember from Kraus's rambling. "Any of you listening. Help me. I honor you. I carry your marks. Help me."

I visualized it. The door fusing to the frame. The bars thickening. Becoming immovable. No one getting in. No one.

My nose started bleeding. Hot copper taste. I wiped it away, kept focusing.

"Thor," I said again. "Strengthen these bars. Keep them out. Protect me."

I felt something shift. In the air. In my bones. In the metal under my hands.

Or maybe I just wanted to feel it so badly I imagined it.

I collapsed back onto the bunk. Exhausted. Nosebleed soaking the thin pillow. Head pounding.

If it didn't work—if this was all just desperation and delusion—I'd know soon enough.

I fell asleep waiting for them.

Voices woke me.

Outside the cell. Low, angry.

"Open it." Werner's voice.

Sound of the lock disengaging. Electronic click. Guard's voice: "It's unlocked. Should open."

The door didn't move.

I lay there, frozen. Listening.

"What the fuck?" That was Brick. "It's not locked?"

"No. System says it's open. Should push right open." Guard sounded confused.

Sound of pulling. Straining. Metal creaking but not moving.

"Something's wrong with it," the guard said. "Mechanism might be jammed."

Three men pulling. I could hear them grunting with effort. The door rattled. Shook. But didn't open.

Ten minutes of this. Pulling. Straining. Cursing.

Finally Werner: "Forget it. Something's fucked with the door."

"I'll report it," the guard said. "Get maintenance to look at it tomorrow."

Footsteps walking away. The tier went quiet.

I lay there, barely breathing.

It worked.

Holy fuck, it worked.

The prayer. The visualization. The desperate belief. Whatever I'd done—however I'd done it—the door wouldn't open. Three Brotherhood members, maybe more, pulling with all their strength, and the door wouldn't budge.

Protection magic. Real, physical, impossible protection magic.

I started laughing. Couldn't help it. Quiet at first, then louder. Hysterical, probably. But alive. Unbroken. Untouched.

My cherry was intact because I'd prayed to a Norse god and meant it.

Prison was officially fucking insane.

Morning count came at six AM. Guard opened my door with no problem. Clicked open smooth, swung wide. He looked confused.

"Door was jammed last night," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Works fine now. Weird." He moved on.

Flaco came back after breakfast. Dropped his box on the upper bunk, looked at me.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"They came?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Door wouldn't open." I kept my voice flat. Casual. "Something jammed. They gave up."

Flaco stared at me. "That's impossible."

"Yeah. Weird, right?"

He knew I was lying. Or not lying, but not telling the whole truth. But he didn't push.

"You're lucky, hermano."

"Yeah," I said. "Lucky."

But it wasn't luck. It was magic. Real, terrifying, impossible magic.

And I had it.

The Brotherhood left me alone after that.

Werner approached me in the yard two days later. Alone. No threat. Just talking.

"The door," he said. "That was you."

Not a question.

"Don't know what you mean."

"Yeah you do." Werner looked at my tattoos. "Kraus gave you something. Before he died. Gave you... power."

I didn't answer.

"Axel wants to know what you can do. What you learned. But I told him—we can't force it. Can't beat it out of you. Because if you can lock a door with your mind, what else can you do?"

"I didn't lock anything with my mind. Door jammed. Maintenance fixed it."

"Bullshit." But Werner smiled slightly. "Keep your secrets. For now. But understand—you're Brotherhood protected because of Kraus. Because of what he gave you. We honor that. But if you ever use what you have against us—"

"I won't."

"See that you don't." Werner walked away.

That was it. No more tests. No more shower ambushes. I was under protection. Real protection. Because they feared what I might be able to do.

Fear is another kind of respect.

I went to the library that afternoon.

Central North had a small library on 4-Beta. Mostly paperbacks—westerns, thrillers, self-help garbage. But some other stuff too. Hidden in the back shelves. Weird stuff nobody read.

I found Aleister Crowley. Beat-up copy of Magick in Theory and Practice. Lobsang Rampa's books on astral projection. The Key of Solomon. Some Wicca texts that looked useless but might have techniques worth stealing.

I checked them all out. Officer Gibbins didn't even look at the titles. Didn't care.

Back in Cell 47, I started reading.

If magic was real—if I'd inherited some chaos magic legacy from a dying Nazi occultist—I needed to understand it. Control it. Use it deliberately instead of desperately.

Kraus had said: The rest you must learn yourself.

Fine. I'd learn.

Flaco watched me from the upper bunk. "What's all that?"

"Research."

"For what?"

"Survival."

He didn't ask more questions. Smart guy.

I read until lights out. Then lay in the dark, thinking.

The power is real. I'd used it twice now. Gustav falling. The door that wouldn't open. Both times desperate. Both times believing absolutely.

Kraus had said belief was the engine. Will was the steering wheel. Symbols were the focusing lens.

I had the symbols—tattooed on my skin, blood memory encoded in my ancestry. I had will—ten years in prison creates plenty of that. And belief?

Well. I believed now.

The question was what to do with it.

Kraus's voice echoed in my head: Use it. Many powers. Or they will use you.

Yeah. I'd use it.

But carefully. Deliberately. On my terms.

I had four years left of a ten-year sentence. Plenty of time to figure out what the hell I'd become.

And plenty of reasons to need every scrap of power I could master.

The runes were silent. But I could feel them. Under my skin. In my blood.

Humming.

Waiting.