One year in, I had a system.

The library cart job came open when Martinez got shanked in the yard. Wrong place, wrong time, Latino guy who pissed off the wrong Kingsmen. Dead before the guards got there.

I wanted that job. Wednesdays, 7:30 AM, pushing books tier to tier. Access to every cell. Perfect cover for my real work.

Problem was that twenty guys wanted it. Library jobs were cushy. No heavy lifting. No kitchen grease. Just books and quiet.

I used magic to get it.

Simple working. Protection sigil for the library supervisor—civilian employee, nervous about prison violence. Drew it on a piece of paper, charged it with blood, slipped it to him during a book return. "This'll keep you safe," I told him. "And I'd be real good at keeping things... orderly... on the cart."

He gave me the job two days later.

Now, every Wednesday morning, Officer Gibbins met me at 4-Beta. Coffee in hand, phone already out. His job was to babysit me. My job was to push the cart tier by tier and pretend I was just delivering books.

We both knew better.

"Let's get this over with, O'Reilly," Gibbins said. Didn't look up from his phone. Never did. Whatever he was scrolling—sports scores, porn, didn't matter—was more interesting than watching me work.

Perfect.

I pushed the cart out of the library. Wheels squeaked. Always squeaked. Metal on concrete, echo in the Pit, announcing my arrival to every tier. By now, everyone knew what Wednesday morning meant.

The witch was making rounds.

3-Alpha first. My home tier. Guys knew me here. Knew what I could do.

I stopped at Cell 12. Rico Menendez browsing the cart, pretending to look at westerns. Big guy, Latino, Kings-affiliated but low-level. Doing eight years for assault.

"Got anything new?" he asked. Loud enough for Gibbins to hear.

"Same shit as last week," I said. Also loud enough.

Rico picked up a James Adler paperback. Thirty years old, spine cracked, pages yellowed. Flipped through it while leaning close.

"Need something," he whispered. Lips barely moving. "My girl outside. She's fucking around. I know it."

"Love spell or revenge?" I kept my voice low. Eyes on the cart.

"Make her remember me. Make her—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Make her faithful."

Classic. Happened twice a week. Guys inside, girls outside moving on. Tale as old as prison.

"Fifteen," I said. "Commissary credit."

"Ten."

"Fifteen. You want it done right or you want it cheap?"

Rico's jaw tightened. Then nodded. "Fifteen. When?"

"Friday. You'll feel it working by Monday."

He took the paperback. Walked back to his cell. Gibbins never looked up from his phone.

I moved the cart down the tier.

Cell 23—Kraus's old cell—was occupied now. New fish, white kid, maybe twenty. Scared eyes. Hadn't learned the taxonomy yet. I didn't stop. The old man was a year dead now. Whatever secrets he'd had died with him. Or so I thought.

Cell 31. Vincent "Vinnie Pipes" Calabrese waiting at his door. Mid-fifties, grey hair, old-school mob associate doing twelve for racketeering. Respectful. Always paid on time. Never asked for anything that crossed lines.

"Thor." He nodded. Formal. "Got a minute?"

I stopped the cart. Gibbins was twenty feet back, scrolling.

"What'chu need, Vinnie?"

"My daughter." His voice got quiet. Rough. "She turns sixteen next week. Out in Mississauga. Good kid. Stays out of trouble. But the neighborhood's getting bad. Gangs moving in. I can't protect her from in here."

"You want a protection sigil."

"Yeah. Something. Anything." His eyes were desperate. Fathers inside, daughters outside. Worst kind of helpless. "I'll pay whatever."

I thought about it. Protection magic was my specialty. Algiz rune, simple design, charged with intent. Easy work. But this was his kid. Real stakes.

"No charge," I said.

Vinnie blinked. "What?"

"I'll draw the sigil. Charge it proper. You give me her full name, birthday. I'll tie it to her." I met his eyes. "No charge. But you owe me one. Fair?"

"More than fair." Relief flooded his face. "Thank you, Thor. Seriously. Thank you."

"Give me the details tomorrow. I'll have it ready by Friday."

I moved on. Vinnie watched me go. Respect in his eyes. That's what I was building. Not just fear. Respect.

Cell 47 was empty. Flaco was out on work detail. The cell felt bigger without him in it. Quieter. I'd gotten used to his presence. His Spanish cursing. His terrible jokes. Been cellies for a year now. Closest thing to a friend I had inside.

I kept pushing the cart.

2-Beta was mixed territory. Latin Kings, Black Kingsmen, independents all crammed together. Tension always higher here. Violence more common. I kept my head on a swivel.

Isaiah "Prophet" Muhammad flagged me down at Cell 52. Tall, lean, early forties. Nation of Islam. Smart as hell. Always reading, always thinking. Theological debates were his thing.

"Young Thor," he said. Formal address. "I have a question."

"Shoot."

"Your magic. It is heretical, you understand this? Polytheism. Paganism. Contrary to the revealed word of God."

I'd heard this before. Prophet liked to poke at my theology. Never mean-spirited. Just genuinely curious how I reconciled it.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm aware."

"And yet it works." He stroked his beard. Thoughtful. "I have observed this. Men you curse suffer misfortune. Men you bless find fortune. Objects you ward remain protected. How do you explain this within your framework?"

"I don't have a framework. I just do what works."

"Chaos magic," Prophet said. "The belief that belief itself is the operative mechanism. Fascinating. Heretical, but fascinating."

Gibbins was still scrolling. Fifteen feet away. Oblivious.

"You need something, Prophet? Or just want to debate theology?"

He smiled. Thin. "Both. I need a working done. But I struggle with the ethics."

"What kind of working?"

"My parole hearing. Next month. The board—" He paused. "I have been a model prisoner for six years. Education programs. Mentorship. Everything they ask. But the board is... resistant. I believe racial bias may be a factor."

"You want me to influence the board."

"Is such a thing possible?"

I thought about it. Influencing minds was hard. Not impossible, but hard. Required more power than I usually used. More risk. More cost.

"Maybe," I said. "But it's expensive. And I can't guarantee it works."

"How expensive?"

"Fifty. Commissary credit."

Prophet whistled. "That is significant."

"It's significant magic. High risk. I'd be reaching outside the prison. Touching civilian minds. Boards have multiple people. I'd need to craft something that works on all of them without them knowing." I met his eyes. "And even then, might not work. Magic's not a vending machine."

"I understand." Prophet considered. "Let me think on it. Consult my conscience."

"You do that. Offer stands until next Wednesday."

I moved on. Prophet watched me go. Calculating. Weighing faith against desperation. Same calculation everyone made eventually.

Cell 68. Old Man Petersen.

I hated this stop. Petersen was protective custody. Pedophile. Did things to kids that made my skin crawl. But he paid well. And I had principles about who I worked for, but I also had bills.

Complicated.

"Thor," Petersen whispered through the door slot. Sixty-seven, grey, scared eyes. PC inmates were bottom of the hierarchy. Everyone wanted them dead. "I need... I need help."

"What kind." I kept my voice flat. Professional. Didn't want to give him warmth.

"My... my manhood. It doesn't... I can't..." His face flushed. Embarrassed. "I want to be able to... you know. For when I get out."

Jesus Christ. Erectile dysfunction spell for a pedophile. This was my life now.

"Seed sigil," I said. "Body magic. Tied to your sexual energy. Fifteen."

"Twenty if you make it strong."

"Fifteen. I'm not making it stronger for you. Bring me your jizz in a clean bottle. Make sure it’s wiped clean on the outside. No goo on the outside or I’ll fucking kill you."

Petersen's face fell. But he nodded. "Okay. Fifteen."

"I'll have it ready Friday."

I moved the cart fast. Didn't want to spend more time near Petersen's cell than necessary. Gibbins didn't notice. Never did.

The cart rounds took three hours. 3-Alpha, 3-Beta, 2-Alpha, 2-Beta. By the time I got back to the library, I had eight jobs lined up. Mental notes only. Never wrote anything down. Too dangerous. Guards searched cells randomly. Finding a client list would be bad.

Very bad.

I unloaded the cart. Gibbins disappeared the second we were done. Probably to scroll his phone in peace somewhere. I stayed in the library. Quiet here. Good place to think.

Marcus "Books" Washington was shelving returns. Tall Black guy, mid-forties, wire-rimmed glasses. Worked the library, read constantly. Smart. Really smart. Philosophy degree before he came inside. Serving life for murder during a robbery.

We'd talked on and off for months. He was curious about my magic. Skeptical, but curious. Smart enough to see it was real, too honest to just accept it without questions.

"Busy morning?" he asked. Didn't look up from his shelving.

"Always."

"You're building quite a reputation. El Bruja. The witch." He said it without judgment. Just observation. "Latin Kings call you that. It's spreading."

"Better than some names I could have."

Books chuckled. "True. Better to be feared than pitied in here." He shelved a Bible. "You believe in it? The magic?"

"Doesn't matter if I believe. It works."

"Pragmatic answer." He looked at me over his glasses. "But does it work because you make it work? Or because they believe it works?"

I'd thought about this. Late nights in Cell 47. Staring at the ceiling. Wondering if I was actually doing magic or just running an elaborate con.

Then I remembered Gustav falling down the stairs. Werner's cell door that wouldn't open. The things I'd seen, done, felt.

"Both," I said. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Honest answer." Books smiled. "I respect that."

He went back to shelving. I sat at one of the tables. Started planning Friday's workings.

Friday night. Lights out. Flaco snoring softly on the upper bunk.

I had eight jobs to deliver. Started with the easy ones.

Rico's love spell. Spit-based. Simple. I visualized his girlfriend—didn't know her face, so I used the concept. Woman. Faithful. Remembering. I spit into my palm. Drew the sigil with my finger. Algiz for protection, but inverted. Bind rune combining Gebo (gift) and Wunjo (joy). Crude, but effective.

Spoke her name nine times. Rico had given me that. Michelle Torres. Each repetition, I poured will into it. See Rico's face. Remember him. Stay faithful. Wait for him.

Felt the magic take. Distant confirmation. Like a rubber band snapping far away.

Done.

Petersen's erectile dysfunction spell made my skin crawl.

He'd provided the component—small vial, still warm, handed through the door slot with shaking hands. Semen. For a sex spell, sympathetic magic required sexual fluids. Made sense magically. Made me want to vomit personally.

I poured it onto the concrete floor. Drew the sigil around it with my finger, trying not to think about where it came from. What he'd done to get it. What he'd do if the spell worked. Uruz for strength. Inguz for fertility. Bind rune connecting them.

Spoke the activation words. Poured will into it. Function. Blood flow. Nerve response. Hated every second.

The magic took. Could feel it lock into place.

I scrubbed my hands three times after. Still felt dirty.

Two down.

Vinnie's daughter. This one I did right. No payment meant no compromise. I pulled out my hidden razor blade—kept it taped under the bunk, wrapped in cloth. Bit my cheek until I tasted copper. Spit blood into my palm.

Drew the protection sigil on the concrete floor. Algiz rune, large and clean. Around it, her name. Sophia Calabrese. Birthday. April 3rd. Sixteen years old.

I laid my hand on the sigil. Poured everything into it. Protect her. Shield her. Turn away violence. Make dangerous men overlook her. Keep her safe.

The magic flowed. Strong. Clean. Felt it lock into place. Permanent ward. Tied to her, wherever she was. Mississauga. Walking to school. Living her life. Protected now by her father's desperation and my blood.

My nose started bleeding halfway through. Small price.

I wiped the sigil away with my jumpsuit sleeve. Left no trace. The magic remained.

Three down.

The bigger jobs took more time.

Lavinia's curse. Longtime con on 2-Alpha, serving thirty-to-life. His ex-wife had testified against him. Taken everything. Living free while he rotted. He wanted her to suffer.

I understood that rage. Intimately.

I'd been saving my morning piss in a shampoo bottle for three days. Gross, yeah. But sympathetic magic doesn't care about dignity. Piss equals degradation. I added rusty nails from the machine shop—pain. Three drops of blood—personal connection.

Shook the bottle while cursing her name. Lavinia Mitchell. Each shake, I visualized misery. Small things. Bad luck. Flat tires. Lost wallets. Missed opportunities. Nothing fatal. Just constant, grinding misfortune.

The curse took shape. Could feel it. Hungry. Mean. Looking for its target.

I'd bury the bottle tomorrow during yard time. Dig a hole by the fence. Three inches deep. Cover it smooth. Curse would work from there. Feeding on the con's rage. Sending misery Lavinia's way.

Did it work? Couldn't prove it. But the con believed. That's what mattered.

Four down.

Four more to go.

I worked through them methodically. Sigil magic mostly. One dream working for a guy who wanted to lucid dream his way through his sentence—weird request, but easy money. One banishing for an independent who thought he was cursed—probably wasn't, but I did the cleansing ritual anyway.

By 2 AM, I was done. Exhausted. Nosebleed had stopped. Headache pounding. Small costs. Normal costs.

I lay on my bunk. Stared at the ceiling.

Eight jobs. One night. One hundred and thirty dollars in commissary credit. Twenty in cash. Three favors owed.

Not bad for a Wednesday's work.

The reputation spread fast.

Latin Kings started calling me "El Bruja" first. The witch. Flaco told me about it. Said it with pride, like he'd helped build something.

Black Kingsmen kept their distance. Superstitious respect. Magic worked on anyone. Better not to fuck with the guy who could curse you from three tiers away.

Brotherhood was proud. One of theirs had power. Made them stronger by association. Axel sent word through Werner—keep doing good work, protection continues.

Independents saw opportunity. Neutral magic user. Would work for anyone. Didn't play gang politics. Just business.

I was becoming a fixture. The prison witch. El Bruja. Thor the magician.

Strange way to survive a ten-year sentence. But it was working.

Commissary day, my account was flush. I bought coffee—real coffee, not instant. Ramen. Honey buns. Soap that didn't smell like industrial cleaner. Saved most of it. Traded cigarettes for information. Cash payments hidden in the cell—taped under the sink now, not just the bunk. Two hundred and forty dollars. Small fortune inside.

My status was rising. Inmates deferred to me. Not much. Just slightly. A nod here. Moving aside in the chow line there. Recognition that I had value. That I was useful.

That I was protected.

Guards noticed but didn't care. As long as I wasn't moving contraband or starting violence, they left me alone. Warden probably knew. Probably didn't care. Order was maintained. That's all that mattered.

I was becoming part of the institutional machinery. The pressure valve. The service provider. The witch.

It felt strange. Powerful. Isolating.

One year in, I stood in the library looking at the books that had taught me.

Aleister Crowley. The Book of the Law. Ceremonial magic that I'd stripped down to chaos magic basics. Use what works. Discard what doesn't.

Lobsang Rampa. The Third Eye. Astral projection techniques. Some of it was probably bullshit. But the core ideas worked. I could leave my body now. Not far. Not reliably outside the prison. But within these walls? I could float to any tier. See anything. Spy on anyone.

Key of Solomon. Sigil work. Circle casting. Most of it was too elaborate for prison. But the principles were solid. I'd adapted them. Made them mine.

Religious texts. Bible. Quran. Torah. Prayer as magical technology. Belief creates power. Didn't matter which god. They all answered if you believed hard enough.

Books watched me from his desk. "Finding what you need?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just reviewing."

"You've become quite the practitioner." He set down his pen. "One year and you're running a thriving magical practice. Impressive."

"Survival."

"More than survival." Books leaned back. "You're building something. What happens when you run out of books to learn from?"

Good question.

"I don't know," I said. "Figure it out as I go."

"Chaos magic indeed." He smiled. "Well, if you need someone to discuss theory with, I'm available. Philosophy degree. Theology minor. I find your practice... fascinating."

"You don't believe in magic."

"I didn't say that. I said I find it fascinating." Books picked up his pen. "Belief is a powerful thing. Whether the magic is real or you're just exceptionally good at manipulation... the results are the same. Men are changed. Outcomes shift. Power flows."

"You think I'm a con artist?"

"I think you're a survivor using every tool available." He met my eyes. "No judgment. Just observation."

I left the library. Books's words following me.

Was I a con artist? Or a magician? Or both?

Did it matter?

One year in, I had the system down.

Question was: how long could I maintain it?

How long before someone wanted more than I could give?

How long before I crossed a line I couldn't uncross?