Werner approached me on day three.

I was sitting on a bench in the yard—concrete slab in the sun, back against chain-link fence, trying to look like I wasn't terrified. Flaco had yard time with his Kings crew, told me to sit tight and keep my head down. Good advice. I was following it.

Then Werner sat down next to me.

Didn't ask. Just sat. Big guy, six-one easy, muscular in that prison way where you've got nothing to do but lift weights and plot violence. Blonde beard, neat and trimmed. Nordic tattoos covering both arms—professional work, not scratchy prison ink. Vegvisir on his right forearm, same as mine. Yggdrasil wrapping his left bicep.

He looked at my arms. I looked straight ahead.

"Nice ink," he said. Voice was calm, almost friendly. "Vegvisir, Yggdrasil. You know the old ways."

"Got them drunk," I said. Kept my voice neutral. "Thought Vikings looked badass."

Werner smiled. Didn't reach his eyes. "A lot of guys say that. They're lying. The runes don't lie. They chose you, brother."

Brother. That word had weight here. Meant something specific.

"I'm just Irish," I said. "Drunk Irish dad thought Thor sounded cool. That's it."

"Thor." Werner leaned back, stretched his arms along the bench. Casual. Territorial. "God of strength. God of protection. You honor him with that name?"

"It's just a name."

"No." Werner's voice got quieter. More intense. "Nothing's just anything in here. You got his name. You got his symbols. You got the blood." He tapped his own forearm, the Vegvisir. "That means something."

I didn't answer. Flaco's warning echoed: Be respectful. Don't commit to nothing.

"You know who I am?" Werner asked.

"Werner. Brotherhood."

"Werner Kowalski. The Dane." He said it with pride. "I help guys like you find their people. Keep them safe. This place—" He gestured at the yard. Latin Kings on one side. Black guys on the basketball court. Independents scattered around the edges. "—it's tribal. You need a tribe or you're meat."

"I got a cellie. Flaco. He's been helpful."

Werner's expression hardened slightly. "Flaco's Kings. Good guy, probably. But you're not Kings, brother. You're one of us. Those tattoos prove it."

"I didn't know tattoos were a prison application."

Wrong thing to say. I knew it as soon as the words left my mouth.

Werner's smile disappeared. "You think this is a joke? You think you can walk around with Odin's symbols, Thor's name, and not represent?"

"I'm not trying to disrespect anybody."

"Then don't." Werner stood. Looked down at me. "Think about where you belong, brother. Think hard. Because if you're not with us, you're against us. And you don't want to be against us."

He walked away. Back to the Brotherhood crew at the weight pile. Three guys watched me from across the yard. Assessing. Calculating.

Flaco appeared at my shoulder. "What'd he say?"

"That my tattoos mean I'm one of them."

"And?"

"I said I'm just Irish."

Flaco shook his head. "Hermano, you can't be neutral here. Not with that ink."

"What if I don't want to join them?"

"Then you better learn to fight real fucking fast."

The shower ambush happened on day five.

Evening shower time. Twenty minutes, rotating schedule, tier by tier. Most vulnerable moment in prison—Flaco had warned me. Naked, wet, exposed. But you had to shower eventually. Smelling like shit got you beaten too.

I went in alone. Stupid, but I didn't have a choice. Flaco's shower slot was different. Eight shower heads, no dividers, tile walls and steam. Three guys already in there when I arrived. White guys. Brotherhood.

I should've left. Turned around. Come back later.

But I didn't. Pride, maybe. Stupidity, definitely.

I picked a shower head at the end. Turned on the water. Hot, for once. Closed my eyes, let it run over my face.

When I opened them, the three guys had moved. Surrounded me.

Kyle "Brick" Morrison. Six-four, built like a fucking truck. Dylan Schafer. Skinny, mean-looking, covered in white power tattoos. Third guy I didn't know. Bald, scarred face, dead eyes.

"Hey, Fish." Brick's voice echoed off the tile. "We need to talk."

I grabbed my towel. Too late. Brick moved fast for a big guy. Shoved me against the tile wall. Wet, cold, my shoulder blades scraping concrete. Dylan got my arms. Twisted them behind my back. Third guy blocked the door.

"Werner talked to you," Brick said. "Asked you nice. Join the family. You disrespected him."

"I didn't—"

His fist caught my stomach. Air exploded out. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just pain radiating through my core, doubling me over. Dylan held me up.

"Said your tattoos were just drunk bullshit." Another punch. Ribs this time. Something cracked. Maybe. Or maybe I just thought it did because the pain was white-hot and blinding. "That's disrespecting the old ways. Disrespecting us."

I tried to fight back. Swung wild, connected with nothing. Brick caught my wrist, twisted. I went down. Knees on wet tile. Water still running from the shower head above, spray hitting my back.

"You got a choice." Brick grabbed my hair. Pulled my head back. "Join us. Earn your protection. Or—"

Dylan's hands went to his belt. Started unbuckling.

Oh fuck. Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

"—we show you what happens to fish who think they're too good for the Brotherhood."

I tried to get up. Brick's knee caught me in the chest. Slammed me back down. Tile cold against my side. Water pooling. Dylan's pants coming down.

This was it. This was how it happened. Beaten, raped, broken. Day five.

Then Werner walked in.

"Not yet."

Three words. Calm. Quiet. Absolute authority.

Dylan stopped. Brick let go of my hair. The third guy stepped back.

Werner walked over. Looked down at me—naked, wet, bleeding from somewhere, curled on the shower floor like a beaten dog. "He hasn't chosen," Werner said. "Can't punish a man for ignorance. Only for defiance."

"He disrespected you," Brick said.

"I know." Werner crouched down. Eye level. "But he's young. Stupid. Doesn't understand yet." He looked at me. "Do you understand now, Thor?"

I nodded. Couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.

"Good." Werner stood. "Get dressed. Go to medical. Tell them you fell." He looked at Brick and Dylan. "Next time he gets a choice, we deliver consequences. But not yet. Not until he chooses."

They left. All four of them. Water still running. Steam filling the room. I lay there, shaking, bleeding, trying to remember how to breathe.

Eventually I stood. Got dressed. Orange jumpsuit stuck to wet skin.

Flaco found me in the hallway. Took one look at my face. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Medical. Now."

Patricia Mills was maybe fifty, grey hair pulled back, reading glasses on a chain around her neck. Nurse, not doctor. Infirmary on 4-Beta, twenty beds, half of them occupied. She'd seen it all. I could tell by the way she looked at me—professional assessment, no shock, no judgment.

"Strip," she said. "Let me see the damage."

I peeled off the jumpsuit. Bruises blooming across my ribs, my stomach. Split lip. Swelling around my left eye. Scrapes on my back from the tile.

Patricia probed my ribs. I hissed.

"Not broken," she said. "Bruised badly. You'll hurt for a week." She handed me an ice pack. "Hold this on your eye."

I did. Cold felt good. Focused the pain to one spot instead of everywhere.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Fell."

"Bullshit." She cleaned the split lip with antiseptic. Stung like hell. "But if that's your story, I'll write it down."

"It's my story."

"You need to find protection." She taped gauze over a particularly bad scrape. "Everyone does. This won't be the last time unless you get smart."

"What if I don't want their protection?"

Patricia looked at me. Really looked at me. Tired eyes, seen too much, cared anyway. "Then you better learn to fight better. Or learn to run faster. Or learn to make yourself too valuable to hurt."

"How do I do that?"

"Fuck if I know, honey." She handed me two pills. "Ibuprofen. Take them. Come back if the ribs get worse—sharp pain when you breathe, could be a fracture I missed."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Just survive." She turned to her paperwork. "Next."

I walked back to 3-Alpha. Every step hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt.

Flaco was waiting in Cell 47.

"How bad?"

"Bruised ribs. Split lip. Eye's gonna swell shut." I climbed onto the lower bunk. Lay down. Ceiling swam.

"They say anything?"

"Join the Brotherhood or next time they finish." I closed my eyes. "Rape, probably. Maybe kill me."

Flaco was quiet for a long time. "I can't protect you, hermano. I'm Kings. You're white. Doesn't work that way."

"I know."

"But I can teach you. Fighting. Where to stand. How to move." He shifted on the upper bunk. "Won't make you tough. But might make you tough enough."

"Okay."

"And Thor?" He leaned over, looked down at me. "Whatever you decide—Brotherhood, independent, whatever—decide soon. Because they're not gonna wait forever."

Axel "The Swede" Magnusson approached me the next day.

Yard time. I was sitting alone—Flaco had warned me, let the Brotherhood make the next move. Don't run. Don't hide. Just wait.

Axel was forty-one, six-three, blonde hair in a ponytail. Covered in Nordic tattoos—professional work, decades of them. Swastikas mixed with Mjolnir, runes I couldn't read, knotwork up his neck. Muscular but lean, prison-fit. Eyes like ice.

He sat down. Didn't ask permission. Didn't need to.

"Thomas O'Reilly," he said. Voice was calm, educated. Surprised me. "Called Thor."

"Yeah."

"I'm Axel Magnusson. I run the Brotherhood in Central North." He leaned back, stretched. Casual. "Werner tells me you're confused about your place here."

"I'm not confused. I just don't want trouble."

"Too late for that." Axel gestured at my swollen eye. "You've got trouble. Question is how you handle it."

I didn't answer.

"You have ink that demands respect," Axel continued. "Vegvisir. Yggdrasil. Thor's hammer. These aren't fashion statements. They're declarations. They say you honor the old ways, the old gods, the old blood."

"I got them drunk when I was nineteen."

"So Werner said." Axel's smile was cold. "But the gods don't care why you took their marks. Only that you did. And now you're here, in a place where those marks mean something. You can't escape that."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to earn the protection those marks should give you." Axel leaned forward. Eye contact. Intense. "There's an old man dying in the infirmary. Gustav Kraus. Eighty-three. Pancreatic cancer. Maybe three weeks left."

"Okay."

"He's Brotherhood. One of ours. Needs someone to sit with him. Change his diapers. Listen to his rambling. Show respect to a dying elder." Axel's expression didn't change. "Do this—show proper honor to an old warrior—and the Brotherhood protects you. You're one of us. Nobody touches you. Not the Kings, not the Kingsmen, not the independents. Nobody."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you're on your own." Axel stood. Looked down at me. "And next shower, Werner doesn't stop them. Nobody stops them. You understand?"

I understood.

"How long?" I asked.

"Until he dies. Three weeks, maybe less." Axel started walking away. Stopped. Turned back. "His name is Gustav Kraus. German. Nazi, back in the day. Real one, not these young punks with swastika tattoos they don't understand. He's forgotten more about the old ways than you'll ever know."

"Why me?"

"Because you have the marks. Because he asked for someone who might understand." Axel's eyes were cold. "And because you don't have a choice."

He walked away. Back to the weight pile where Werner and the others waited.

Flaco appeared at my shoulder. Always watching. "What'd he say?"

"Babysit a dying Nazi or get raped and killed."

"Fuck, hermano."

"Yeah."

"You gonna do it?"

I thought about the shower. Dylan's hands on his belt. Brick's knee in my chest. The cold tile. The certainty that they'd destroy me if Werner hadn't stopped them.

I thought about ten years in here. No protection. No tribe. Just meat for the predators.

"Yeah," I said. "How bad can it be? Old man's dying anyway."

Flaco didn't answer. But his expression said everything.

I'd just made a deal with the devil.

Question was, which one.