They strip you first. That's how it starts.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Orange jumpsuit in a pile at my feet, standing ass-naked in a room that smells like industrial cleaner and fear sweat. Officer Gibbins—nameplate crooked, gut hanging over his belt—staring at me like I'm a side of beef he's inspecting for quality.

"Turn around. Spread 'em."

I did. What else was I gonna do?

The cavity search was exactly as fun as it sounds. Quick, efficient, humiliating. Gibbins had done this a thousand times. I hadn't. My hands were shaking. He didn't care.

"Shower."

The delousing station was a concrete stall with a single showerhead bolted to the wall. Water came out cold, pressure like a firehose. Chemical smell burned my nose. I scrubbed with the bar of soap they'd tossed me—grey, industrial, the kind that takes your skin off along with the dirt.

Three minutes. That's all they gave me. Then Gibbins was back with a towel the size of a dishrag and a new orange jumpsuit.

"Get dressed. Property intake."

The jumpsuit was too big in the waist, too short in the legs. Smelled like bleach and whoever wore it last. The fabric was rough, scratchy, the kind that'd give you a rash if you thought about it too hard. I pulled it on anyway. Wasn't like I had options.

Property intake was a desk, a scale, and a box. My box. Everything I'd brought from county lockup. Photos of my niece—Connor's kid, three years old, gap-toothed smile. Handful of letters. Cheap watch that didn't work anymore but I kept it anyway because Connor gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. Twenty-three dollars in commissary credit.

That was it. That was everything I owned.

Gibbins wrote it down on a form. Didn't look at the photos. Didn't care. Why would he?

"Sign here. Here. Here."

I signed. Thomas Hugh O'Reilly became Fish #47928.

"Tier 3-Alpha. Cell 47. Let's go."

The walk to 3-Alpha was loud.

First thing you notice about prison—real prison, not county, not holding—is the noise. It echoes. Four tiers stacked vertical around this central space they call the Pit. Every door slam, every shout, every toilet flush bounces off concrete and steel and comes back at you twice as loud.

Second thing you notice is everyone's watching.

I kept my eyes down. Head up was asking for trouble. Head down was admitting weakness. I split the difference—looked straight ahead, didn't meet anyone's eyes, tried to look like I knew where I was going even though I didn't.

Gibbins walked ahead, keys jangling. Not fast, not slow. He'd done this walk a thousand times too.

We passed 1-Alpha—noise level cranked up as we got closer to the Pit. Passed 2-Alpha—somebody screaming in Spanish, raw and furious. Passed a common area where guys in orange jumpsuits sat at metal tables bolted to the floor. Card games. Conversations. Groups clustered by some invisible geography I couldn't see yet.

Everyone looked.

Fresh fish. New meat. I could feel their eyes assessing, calculating. Is he weak? Is he strong? What's he in for? What's he worth?

I didn't know the answers to those questions yet. Neither did they. But they'd find out.

3-Alpha was quieter. End of the tier, away from the Pit. Small mercy.

"Cell 47." Gibbins stopped at a door that looked like every other door. Steel. Observation slot. Electronic lock. "You're bunking with Diaz. Don't give him shit, he won't give you shit. Count's at ten, lights out at eleven. Breakfast at six-thirty. You got questions?"

Yeah. I had about a thousand questions.

"No, sir."

"Good." He unlocked the door. "Welcome to Central North."

The door swung open.

Six by ten feet. That's what the intake paperwork said. Looked smaller in person. Two bunks—metal frame, thin mattress, both bolted to the wall. Toilet and sink combo in the corner. Stainless steel. No privacy. Small shelf above the lower bunk. That was it.

Guy on the upper bunk looked down. Mid-thirties, Dominican maybe, dark skin and quick eyes. Wiry build, the kind of lean that comes from not enough food or too much nervous energy. Tear drop tattoo under his left eye. Crown on his forearm—Latin Kings.

Great.

"Flaco," he said. "You're the new guy."

"Thor." It came out automatically. Nobody called me Thomas except my parole officer.

"Thor?" He grinned. Friendly, but assessing. "Like the god?"

"Like the name my drunk Irish dad thought was cool." I gestured at the lower bunk. "This mine?"

"Yeah. I got seniority." He swung down off the upper bunk, landed light. Extended his hand. "Carlos Diaz. Everyone calls me Flaco."

I shook. His grip was firm, testing.

"Thomas O'Reilly. Everyone calls me Thor."

"Irish, huh?" He looked at my arms. I'd pushed the jumpsuit sleeves up out of habit. Tattoos visible—Nordic designs covering both forearms. Vegvisir compass on my right, Yggdrasil world tree wrapping around. Thor's hammer and runes on my left.

Flaco's expression shifted. Hard to read.

"Yeah," I said. "Got 'em when I was nineteen. Drunk as shit. Thought Vikings looked badass."

"They look good." He sat on his bunk. "But those are gonna get you noticed, hermano."

"Noticed how?"

"Brotherhood." He jerked his chin toward the common area. "Aryan Circle. They run the white guys. Nordic ink like that? They're gonna think you're one of them."

My stomach dropped. "I'm not."

"Doesn't matter what you are. Matters what they think." Flaco pulled a deck of cards from under his pillow. Started shuffling. Nervous habit, maybe. "You got people inside? Anyone looking out for you?"

"No."

"Family outside?"

"Brother. Connor. He's got a kid." I thought about the photos in my property box. Wondered when I'd see them again.

"Good. Keep them out of this. Don't talk about them." Flaco dealt himself a hand of solitaire on the thin mattress. "Rule one: Keep your mouth shut. Don't tell nobody your business. Don't ask about theirs."

"Okay."

"Rule two: Keep your asshole tight." He said it matter-of-fact, not joking. "Literally. Don't bend over for nobody. Don't drop the soap. Don't put yourself in positions where you're vulnerable. This ain't a joke, pescado. Rape's real in here."

Jesus Christ.

"Rule three: Eyes open. Always. You're gonna see factions. Territories. Invisible lines. Learn them fast or you're gonna step wrong and get hurt."

I sat on the lower bunk. Mattress was thin as paper, lumpy as hell. Smelled like whoever had it before me. The cell felt smaller with both of us in it.

"How long you in for?" Flaco asked.

"Ten years. Accessory to armed robbery."

He whistled. "First time?"

"Yeah."

"You're young. How old?"

"Twenty-two."

"Fuck, hermano. You're gonna be thirty-two when you get out." He laid down a card. Red queen on black king. "What happened?"

I didn't want to talk about it. But Flaco had given me three rules already and hadn't asked for anything back. Seemed fair to give him something.

"My brother's friend. Marco. Said he needed a ride to pick something up. I drove. Turned out to be a liquor store robbery. Armed. Clerk got shot—not dead, but bad. I didn't know Marco had a gun. Didn't know what we were doing. But I was driving, so I'm accessory."

"You take a plea?"

"Yeah. Public defender said I'd get twenty if we went to trial. Ten if I pled guilty." I leaned back against the concrete wall. Cold seeped through the jumpsuit. "Seemed like the smart play."

"Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't." Flaco shrugged. "Either way, you're here now. Gotta deal with that."

"Yeah."

We sat in silence. Flaco played solitaire. I stared at the wall. Somewhere down the tier, someone was arguing in a language I didn't recognize. Doors slammed. The Pit echoed with noise—constant, oppressive, inescapable.

"You scared?" Flaco asked.

Honest answer? Terrified.

"Yeah."

"Good." He gathered the cards, shuffled again. "Fear keeps you smart. Just don't let it make you stupid."

"What's the difference?"

"Fear makes you careful. Stupid makes you paranoid. Paranoid gets you killed." He looked at me straight. "You seem like a smart kid. Keep your head down, don't start shit, don't disrespect nobody. You'll be alright."

I wanted to believe him.

"Come on." Flaco stood. "Dinner's in twenty. I'll show you the common area. You need to see the map before you walk it blind."

The common area was a dayroom with metal tables and chairs bolted to the floor. TV in the corner—some reality show nobody was watching. Maybe forty guys scattered around in groups. Conversations in English, Spanish, languages I couldn't identify.

Flaco walked me through like a tour guide.

"West side." He pointed with his chin. Casual. Not obvious. "That's Brotherhood territory. Aryan Circle. You see the blonde guy with the beard? That's Werner. He's the recruiter. Avoid him if you can."

Werner was maybe six-one, muscular, covered in Nordic tattoos. Talking to three other white guys, all of them looking like they'd been inside long enough to have the prison posture—shoulders back, eyes always scanning.

"East side." Flaco continued. "That's Kings territory. My people. You got no problem there long as you're cool with me."

Latin Kings clustered around two tables. Some playing dominoes. Some talking. All of them aware of their surroundings, ready for trouble.

"Middle tables?" I asked.

"Contested space. Independents, guys who don't claim, people trying not to get involved." Flaco led me to an empty table. We sat. "That's where you sit until you figure out where you belong."

"Where do I belong?"

"Fuck if I know, hermano. You're white with Viking ink. Brotherhood's gonna claim you whether you want them to or not." He leaned back. "But you got me as a cellie, and I'm Kings-affiliated. So that complicates things."

"Is that a problem?"

"For you or for me?" Flaco grinned. "Both, probably. But we'll figure it out."

Dinner arrived on plastic trays. Some kind of meat—maybe beef, maybe not. Mashed potatoes. Green beans that'd been boiled into submission. Everything lukewarm.

I ate it anyway. Wasn't good, but I was hungry.

Werner walked past our table. Didn't stop. Didn't look at me directly. But I felt his eyes. Assessing. Calculating.

Flaco noticed. "He saw your ink."

"Yeah."

"He's gonna approach you. Tomorrow, probably. Maybe sooner." Flaco scraped his tray clean. "When he does, be respectful. Don't commit to nothing. Say you're thinking about it."

"And if he doesn't take no for an answer?"

Flaco's expression went serious. "Then you got problems, pescado. Big problems."

Count at ten PM happened exactly like Flaco said it would. Guards came through with clipboards, checked faces against names, moved on. Lights out at eleven.

The cell went dark except for the glow from the tier. Never completely dark in prison. Always some light somewhere. Security thing, probably.

I lay on the lower bunk, staring at the underside of Flaco's mattress. Springs creaked when he moved. Sounds from the tier filtered in—someone crying, low and broken. Someone else shouting threats. Doors slamming somewhere distant.

Ten years.

I'd be thirty-two when I got out. If I got out. If I didn't fuck up, didn't get killed, didn't get shanked in the shower or beaten to death in some gang war I didn't understand.

Connor's daughter would be thirteen. Teenager. She wouldn't remember me. Why would she? I'd be that uncle who went to prison when she was three.

My fault. All of it. Trusted Marco because he was Connor's friend. Didn't ask questions. Didn't think. Just drove.

Stupid.

"Thor." Flaco's voice from the upper bunk. Quiet.

"Yeah?"

"Gets easier. Not easy. But easier."

"You been here long?"

"Three years. Got two more." He shifted. Springs creaked. "Drug trafficking. Small-time shit, but I had priors. Judge threw the book."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I knew what I was doing." He was quiet for a moment. "You didn't, sounds like. That's harder. Being here for something you didn't choose."

I didn't have an answer for that.

We lay in silence. The crying stopped. The shouting continued. Somewhere three tiers down, metal crashed against metal. Fight, maybe. Or just someone throwing a fit.

Sleep wasn't coming. I knew it wouldn't. First night in a new place, surrounded by predators, wearing someone else's jumpsuit that smelled like bleach and desperation.

My hands were still shaking.

"Flaco?"

"Yeah, hermano?"

"Those tattoos." I looked at my forearms in the dim light. Couldn't see the details, but I knew they were there. Vegvisir. Yggdrasil. Thor's hammer. Runes I couldn't read, picked because they looked cool when I was nineteen and drunk and trying to impress a girl whose name I couldn't remember anymore. "You really think the Brotherhood's gonna come after me?"

Flaco was quiet for a long time.

"Yeah," he finally said. "I do. Those tattoos, hermano? They're gonna get you noticed. Better decide who you are before someone decides for you."

I stared at the underside of his bunk.

Ten years.

Better figure it out fast.