Two weeks of lockdown. Twenty-three hours a day in a six-by-ten box. Nothing to do but think, sleep, and go slowly out of my mind.

Or practice.

I started the first night after Flaco left. Couldn't sleep anyway. Cell 47 was too quiet without him. So, I lay on the bunk, closed my eyes, and did what Lobsang Rampa's book said to do. Relaxed every muscle. Breathed slow. Felt the body go heavy, then light, then gone.

The tether formed. My astral umbilicus trailing back to the bunk like a thread of light. I pushed off.

Astral projection inside CNCC was a different beast than outside. No time displacement. No guessing. I thought about a place, I was there. Simple as that. The prison was my territory — every wall, every corridor, every cell mapped in my mind after a year of walking them.

First night: I visited the Warden's office.

Hutchins wasn't there. Late shift, nobody home. Just his desk, neat as a surgery table. Diplomas on the wall. A framed photo of a woman who looked like she didn't want to be in the frame anymore.

Papers on the desk. I drifted close. Read them.

One file had my name on it. Not the subject — I was buried in a list of inmates who'd used the payphones in the yard during the week of Danny's arrest. Routine check. Part of Hutchins's investigation into the Crimestoppers leak.

My heart would have hammered if I'd had a heart to hammer. Astral form doesn't work that way.

I kept reading. The file was thin. Hutchins had cross-referenced phone logs with inmate schedules, yard rotations, guard reports. Standard procedure. Methodical. But there was nothing pointing at me specifically. I was one name in a list of forty-three inmates who'd used the phones that week.

Nobody suspected Thor.

Relief hit me like cold water. I floated there in the dark office, reading my own name buried in a list, and felt something loosen in my chest that had been tight since Friday.

I was safe. For now.

The practice montage ran for two weeks straight.

Every night after lights out. Sometimes during the day too — lockdown meant guards checked cells at random, but they couldn't see me projecting. Just a guy lying on his bunk, eyes closed, not moving. Boring as hell to watch.

Day three: I visited the commissary.

The storage room behind the main counter. Metal shelves, industrial-sized containers. The good stuff was hidden — not for inmates, but for guards. A shelf behind a rack of industrial cleaning supplies. Chocolate bars. Real coffee. The kind that didn't taste like dishwater. I memorized the location. Filed it away for later. Information is currency. You don't spend it until the price is right.

Day five: I got ambitious. Visited other tiers.

Latin Kings meeting on 2-Beta. Three guys in a corner of the dayroom, heads close together, voices low. I couldn't hear them — astral projection doesn't pick up sound the way it picks up sight. But I could read body language. Tense. Angry. One of them kept gesturing toward the Brotherhood side of the common area. Planning something. Retaliation, probably. The riot hadn't cooled their blood.

Brotherhood meeting on 3-Beta. Werner and two others. Calmer than the Kings. Strategic. Werner was talking — mouth moving, hands making shapes that looked like layouts. Floor plans, maybe. I watched for twenty minutes. Couldn't hear a word. But I saw Werner's face, and for the first time since I'd known him, he looked satisfied.

He thought I was one of them now.

Day seven: I pushed the range.

Tried to leave CNCC. Focused on the parking lot outside the main building. Visualized it — asphalt, chain-link, the guard tower. Pushed hard.

The tether snapped taut. Not broke — snapped taut, like a leash hitting its limit. Resistance like swimming through concrete. I pushed harder. Nothing. The image stayed flat, dead. Like trying to picture a place from a photograph instead of memory.

I'd made it to Parkdale before. The Danny job. But that was different — I knew that neighbourhood. Grew up blocks from that building. The visualization was sharp, specific, emotionally loaded. Twenty bucks and a pregnant woman's life and the desperate need to see what was happening. The projection burned through whatever barrier existed because the fuel was right.

The parking lot outside CNCC? I'd never stood in it. Never been there. No memory, no emotion, no connection. Nothing to burn. The astral form had nothing to grab onto, and the tether pulled me back like a hand on my collar.

It wasn't that outside was impossible. It was that outside was hard. Harder than inside, where everything was familiar, where the emotional intensity fed the power like oxygen feeds a fire. Outside required the right conditions — sharp visualization, real stakes, something to anchor the projection beyond raw will.

Inside CNCC, I could go anywhere. Outside, I could go where it mattered enough to take me.

That was a distinction worth understanding.

I drifted back to my body. Lay there in the dark, thinking about what that meant. Magic was strongest where I'd bled. Where I'd suffered. Where the emotional intensity was highest. Prison was a pressure cooker of need and fear and desperate fucking survival — the perfect fuel for chaos magic.

Outside was just... the world. Regular. Quiet. Not enough to feed the power.

I'd have to figure that out eventually. Nine years from now, when I walked through those gates for the last time, the world wasn't going to be a prison anymore.

But that was a problem for future Thor. Present Thor had two weeks of lockdown and a lot of practice to do.

Day eleven: I found something interesting about Guard Gibbins.

Not during a projection. This one was pure observation — yard time, the one hour we got, rotating by tier. I was watching the guard rotation from the fence, nothing to do, when Gibbins walked past the phone bank with a civilian in a jacket.

Not a guard. Not staff. Some outside guy, clipboard, pretending to be from maintenance.

Gibbins handed him something. Small. Slipped it palm-to-palm like a card trick.

The civilian walked away. Gibbins kept moving, phone already out, scrolling.

Next day, during astral projection, I visited Gibbins's locker in the guard break room. Found a cash envelope taped to the inside of the door. Counted it in my head — twelve hundred dollars. Too much for a side hustle. Too regular for a one-time thing.

Gibbins was selling phones to inmates. Contraband cell phones, smuggled in through the civilian contact. The guy on the phone bank was the middleman. And Gibbins was collecting.

I filed it away. Didn't tell anyone. Didn't need to. Knowledge like that was a loaded gun — you kept it in the drawer until someone needed to die.

By the end of the two weeks, I knew things nobody else in Central North knew. Things that could get people fired, transferred, buried. Things that could save my life if I ever needed leverage badly enough.

The astral projection was getting sharper too. Faster entry, cleaner visualization, longer duration without the physical toll. I could project for hours now without a nosebleed. The practice was paying off.

Prison was my domain. And I was learning every inch of it.

Lockdown lifted on a Wednesday.

Warden Hutchins came on the PA at 6 AM: "Facility-wide lockdown is hereby lifted, effective immediately. Normal schedules resume. Any inmate found engaging in unauthorized activity will face disciplinary action. That is all."

The tier exhaled. Two weeks of 23-hour confinement was over. Doors opened. People moved. The noise started up again — shouts, laughter, the constant percussion of a prison returning to life.

I stood in Cell 47. Alone. Stretched. Felt good to move.

Then the guard came.

Mid-morning. Clipboard. Different from the lockdown guards — this one had paperwork, not a baton.

"O'Reilly. You're getting a new cellie. Name's Washington. Marcus Washington. He'll be here by lunch."

"Washington." I kept my voice neutral. "Books?"

The guard looked at me. "You know him?"

"Everyone knows Books."

"Good. Keep it civil." He moved on down the tier.

I stood there, processing.

Marcus "Books" Washington. Black Kingsmen affiliated. Lifer. 45 years old, philosophy degree, 25 years served. The guy who sat in the library reading philosophy while other inmates played cards and picked fights. The guy every faction in Central North left alone because he was too old, too wise, and too respected to fuck with.

And he was Black Kingsmen.

I was Brotherhood-protected.

The riot had just ended two weeks ago. Brotherhood versus Kingsmen. I'd fought on the Brotherhood side. Saved one of their guys.

And now the system was putting a Kingsmen man in my cell.

Either somebody in admin didn't know what they were doing. Or somebody knew exactly what they were doing and wanted to see what happened.

I sat on the lower bunk and waited.

Books arrived at noon.

The guard brought him to Cell 47 with a property box and a stack of books — actual books, paperbacks, dog-eared, held together with rubber bands. Books carried them himself, careful, like they were the most valuable things he owned. Maybe they were.

He was tall. Six-two, maybe more. Forty-five but carried it well — the kind of age that comes from decades of thinking more than fighting. Graying beard kept neat. Wire-rimmed glasses, the prison-issue kind, but he'd adjusted them to fit his face properly. Dignified. That was the word. Dignified bearing, the kind that's earned over years, not given.

He looked at me. Looked at the cell. Looked at the upper bunk. Made his assessment in about three seconds.

I knew him. Not well. But enough. Library fixture — worked there three days a week, shelving and cataloguing while I pushed my cart through the tiers. We'd crossed paths a hundred times. Exchanged a few words here and there. Books reading Dostoevsky in the back corner while inmates around him played cards and picked fights. Quiet. Steady. The kind of guy who made a room feel calmer just by being in it.

He looked at me. Not surprised. Not assessing — he already knew what I was. Just checking whether the arrangement was going to work.

"Thor." A nod. Not a greeting exactly. An acknowledgment.

"Books." I stayed on the lower bunk. Didn't move to make room or shake hands or do any of the shit people do when they're trying to make a good impression. We were past that. "Kingsmen guy in a Brotherhood cell. Someone in admin's either stupid or testing us."

Books set his property box down on the floor. Carefully. Looked around the cell — six by ten feet, the lower bunk taken, the upper bunk waiting. He'd done this before. Many times, probably, over 25 years.

"Or someone in admin knows I'm Switzerland," he said. Calm. Matter-of-fact. "And figured two smart guys could share a box without killing each other."

"Can we?"

"I don't see why not." He picked up his books, tucked them under his arm. Climbed the ladder to the upper bunk. Settled in. Laid the books out on the thin mattress, organized by size. Same way he organized the library shelves — neat, precise, everything where it belonged.

"But I should tell you something," he said, not looking down. Still arranging. "I've watched you work. The library cart, the clients, the reputation. All of it."

"And?"

"I don't believe in magic."

I almost laughed. Almost.

"You will," I said.

Books glanced down. The ghost of something on his face — not quite a smile. Not quite amusement. More like curiosity. The look of a man who'd seen a lot of things in 25 years and had learned not to dismiss anything outright.

"We'll see," he said.

He picked up a paperback — spine cracked, pages yellowed — and started reading.

First full day together. Books was methodical about everything.

He organized his property box in twenty minutes. Books, toiletries, a few photos, a worn leather journal. Everything in its place. Then he sat on the upper bunk and read for three hours straight while I lay on the lower bunk and watched him not move.

Eventually he came down. Lunch. We walked to the common area together — first time either of us had been out in two weeks. The dayroom felt enormous after Cell 47.

We sat at a table. Books had his coffee — the bad kind, commissary instant, but he drank it like it was something worth savoring. I watched him drink it and tried not to think about the good stuff I'd found in the guard storage room.

"So," Books said, between sips. "The witch."

"El Bruja. Yeah."

"What exactly does that entail?"

"Love spells. Protection sigils. Curses. Dream work. Astral projection." I kept it clinical. Business description, not bragging. "People pay me. I do the work. Word spreads."

Books nodded. Considering. "And you believe this is real? Not performance art for the superstitious?"

"It's real."

"How do you know?"

"Because it works."

"Correlation isn't causation." Books took another sip. Patient. Not mocking — genuinely interested. "Someone pays you for a love spell. The relationship improves. Could be magic. Could be the placebo effect — they believe it worked, so they act differently, and the relationship responds to their changed behavior."

"Could be," I said. "But the coffee cup thing isn't placebo."

"What coffee cup thing?"

I looked at him. At his coffee. The cheap white ceramic mug, chipped on the rim, sitting six inches to his right.

"Watch it," I said.

Books looked at the cup. Then back at me. "Watch what?"

"The cup. Don't look away."

He looked at the cup again. Skeptical. But looking.

I focused. Simple visualization. Cup slides six inches to the left. Slow. Smooth. Nothing else moves. Nobody touches it. Just the cup, responding to my will like it was on rails.

I poured everything into it — not rage, not fear this time. Just quiet certainty. I know what I am. I know what I can do. Watch.

The cup moved.

Slow at first. Barely perceptible. Then a smooth, deliberate slide across the table. Six inches. Stopped exactly where I'd visualized it.

Books stared at the cup.

Then stared at me.

Then stared at the cup again.

The common area was loud around us — conversations, card games, the TV nobody was watching. Nobody else had seen it. Nobody was looking at our table. Just Books and me and a coffee cup that had moved by itself.

"Still think it's psychology meets physics?" I asked.

Books was quiet for a long time. Long enough that the silence became its own thing. He picked up the cup — from its new position — and turned it over in his hands. Looked at it. Set it back down.

"I need to rethink some things," he said.

That night, Cell 47. Lights out. Books on the upper bunk, not reading for once. Just lying there, staring at the ceiling.

"Okay," he said into the dark. "New hypothesis needed."

"Yeah."

"If magic is real — and apparently it is — what are the rules?"

I lay on the lower bunk, hands behind my head. This was the part I'd been thinking about for months. The part Books was now going to help me figure out properly.

"There are no rules," I said. "That's chaos magic. You use whatever works. Runes, sigils, prayers, blood. Mix traditions. If it works, it's valid. If it doesn't, throw it out."

"No rules at all?" Books sounded skeptical again. Different kind of skeptical now — not doubting magic existed but doubting it could be that simple.

"Belief is the engine," I said. "Will is the steering wheel. You believe something hard enough, and you want it bad enough, and you make it real."

"Belief in what, though?" Books shifted. Springs creaked. "The mechanism matters. If you believe a sigil works because of some ancient power — gods, demons, cosmic force — that's one framework. The power is external. You're a channel."

"Okay."

"But if you believe it works because YOU make it work — because it's your will given physical form — that's a different framework entirely." He paused. "And a very different set of implications."

"Like what?"

"Like responsibility." The word landed heavy in the dark. "If magic is external — divine, supernatural, whatever — you're just a vessel. The gods used you. Not your fault what happens."

"And if it's me?"

"Then every spell you cast, every curse, every working — that's on you. Every consequence. Every ripple. Every person who gets hurt because of what you did." Books let that sit for a moment. "That's not a parlor trick, Thor. That's a burden."

I stared at the underside of his bunk. Thought about Gustav falling down the stairs. Thought about Danny. About Rochelle. About the riot on 2-Beta and the blood on the concrete and the Brotherhood enforcer I'd pulled to his feet.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm learning that."

Books was quiet for a while. Then: "Which is it? For you?"

"It's me. It's always been me. Kraus opened the channels, but the power comes from inside. From need. From will." I closed my eyes. "Books would say it's my will made manifest."

"Books would," he said. A pause. Then, quieter: "And Books would also say that makes you one of the most dangerous people in this building. Whether you know it or not."

I didn't have an answer for that.

We lay in the dark, two men in a six-by-ten box and didn't talk for a long time.

A week into the cellie arrangement, Books told me his story.

I hadn't asked. Not directly. But we'd been talking every night — philosophy, magic, prison politics, the nature of belief and power and what it meant to be responsible for the things you set in motion. Books had heard my story (the short version — Marco, the setup, the plea deal). Seemed fair to return the favor.

He told it the way he told everything — measured. Honest. No self-pity.

"Philosophy degree," he said. We were in the library. Books's domain — he worked there three days a week, shelving and cataloguing. I had my library cart job back (Wednesday rounds with Gibbins, who hadn't changed a bit — phone out, scrolling, couldn't care less). We sat at the back table, away from the few other inmates browsing.

"Good school. Scholarship covered tuition. Student loans covered everything else." Books cleaned his glasses on his shirt. Methodical. "Graduated into a recession. No teaching jobs. No money. Loans coming due."

"How much?"

"Enough." He put the glasses back on. "I was twenty-two. Same age you were when you came in. Desperate. Thought I was smarter than the situation. Thought I could solve it fast, move on, nobody gets hurt."

"Robbery."

"Corner store. Two in the morning. Nobody supposed to be there." Books’ voice stayed level. Flat. Like he was reading a case study about someone else. "I had a gun. Stolen from a neighbor. Didn't know if it was loaded. Didn't want to know."

"Someone was there."

"Owner. Worked late. Wouldn't leave his store unattended." Books folded his hands on the table. "He saw the gun. Grabbed for it. It went off."

The library was quiet. Somewhere across the room, an inmate coughed.

"Killed him," I said.

"Killed him." Books nodded once. "Right there behind the counter. I stood there for maybe thirty seconds. Then I dropped the gun and walked out."

"You didn't run?"

"Where would I run to?" A ghost of a smile. Sad. "I went home. Sat on my bed. Called 911 at 6 AM. Turned myself in."

"Why?"

Books looked at me over the wire-rimmed glasses. "Because I killed a man. And running from that doesn't make it not true. It just makes you a coward on top of a murderer."

"Pled guilty?"

"Life without parole. Twenty-five years served. I'll die in here." He said it the way someone says the weather forecast. A fact. Nothing more. "I've accepted that."

"And you're not bitter?"

"I was. For the first ten years, I was furious. At myself, at the system, at God, at everything." He picked up a book from the table — Dostoevsky, I think — turned it over in his hands. "Then I realized bitter is easy. It's the default. The path of least resistance. You let the anger eat you and eventually there's nothing left but the anger."

"So, what did you do?"

"I chose hard." He set the book down. "I read. I thought. I tried to understand what I'd done and why and what it meant. Not to excuse it. To learn from it. To become something other than the worst moment of my life."

"And did you?"

Books considered the question seriously. The way he considered everything — like it deserved real attention.

"I think so," he said. "But I'm still working on it."

We sat in the library for another hour. Didn't talk much after that. Didn't need to. Some things land and settle on their own.

The alliance solidified over the next two weeks.

Not with any single event. No handshake, no agreement, no moment where we said "okay, we're friends now." It just happened — the way real things happen in prison, which is slowly, carefully, with constant assessment on both sides.

Books helped me think through job requests.

One evening, an inmate I barely knew passed a kite through the library cart — a folded note asking for a curse on his ex-wife's new boyfriend. Standard revenge shit. The kind of job I'd have done without thinking six months ago.

I showed it to Books that night in the cell.

"Read it," I said.

He did. Handed it back. "What are you thinking?"

"Twenty bucks. Simple sympathetic curse. Bottle curse, maybe. Piss and nails."

"And what happens after?"

"Guy gets unlucky for a while. Bad luck, miserable time. Standard."

"And the ripples?" Books took off his glasses. Cleaned them. Put them back on. "You curse the boyfriend. He has a bad week. Gets fired, maybe. Or gets in a fight. Or drinks too much and hurts someone. And that someone has their own ripples. And on and on."

"That's true of everything."

"It is. But most people don't have the power to set those ripples in motion deliberately." He looked at me. "You do. So, the question isn't whether it's possible. It's whether it's worth it. Twenty bucks and someone else's misery. Is that the kind of practitioner you want to be?"

I looked at the kite for a long time.

Wrote back: "No dice. Find someone else."

The guy wasn't happy. But he didn't push it. Nobody pushed back on El Bruja.

Books watched me fold the note and tuck it into my pocket. He didn't smile. Didn't say "good." Just nodded. Once. Like a teacher watching a student get the answer right without being told.

"That's the real magic, Thor," he said. Quiet. Almost to himself. "That's the real trick. Not the spells. Not the curses or the sigils or the blood work."

He looked at me. Steady. Those calm, tired eyes that had seen everything and chosen wisdom over bitterness.

"The choice to be better than the man who gave you the power."

I sat with that for a while.

Thought about Kraus. The Nazi. The watchmaker. The occultist who'd given me everything he knew and expected me to use it the same way he had — without conscience, without limit, without care for what it cost the people caught in the wake.

I wasn't him.

I didn't have to be.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm working on it."

Books picked up his book. Started reading. The cell settled into its usual quiet — two men, six by ten feet, the sounds of the tier filtering in through the bars.

It was the closest thing to peace I'd felt since I walked through the gates of Central North.