Today, 01:10 AM
He’d been bouncing between crime families for weeks, skimming the surface of their conversations while filtering real intel back to the Patron. Keeping up appearances, cracking jokes over cheap liquor with men who’d kill their own blood for looking sideways at their daughters. Then pinging updates to Marcus in dry bursts. The consul rarely responded. When he did, it was usually a thumbs-up or a blinking dot that never finished typing.
So imagine his surprise when he got summoned. In person.
Ryker didn’t like surprises.
And he especially didn’t like Butryka.
The place had once been his own personal hell. Back when Oriena had twisted his thoughts into string and watched him tangle himself in it. That bitch had left marks, even if the bruises were long gone. But he’d taken the assignment. Not because he was loyal. Because he was suspicious. Some small voice in the back of his skull told him this smelled like a trap.
But Ryker had learned a thing or two since last time. And this time, he had a plan.
Coming in as official oversight with credentials gleaming and name logged was a different beast entirely. No cold intake cell. No head mask. No guards shoving him into an overcrowded cell. They waved him through like he was royalty. The facial scan barely buzzed before unlocking. And the real kicker? They didn’t even pat him down.
The switchblade in his jacket pocket felt heavy now, more like an insult than insurance. He almost handed it over out of spite, just to prove a point. But the guards were already ignoring him, scanning someone else. Uniforms crisp. Eyes flat. Not one face was familiar.
Good. Or maybe bad. Hard to say anymore.
The second thing he noticed was the change in the air.
Butryka used to reek of damp concrete, old piss, and desperation. Now it smelled sterile. Cold. Artificial, like metal cooled too quickly. The corridor ahead gleamed like something out of a high-budget space thriller. Matte gray paneling along the walls. Embedded lights that adjusted hue as he passed. Cameras that tracked his movement without blinking. No keys. No locks. Just soft biometric clicks as doors whispered open.
“Nice place,” he muttered. “Shame about the purpose.”
A functionary with sharp eyes and a smooth uniform led him deeper into the prison. No name offered. Just the practiced tone of someone who’d forgotten how to speak without clearing everything through three layers of protocol first.
"This block’s nearly complete," the functionary said, gesturing to a line of cells with thick, transparent doors. Smartglass, Ryker noted; opaque from the outside but letting in just enough light to make the occupants visible from inside. “Each one is isolated by directional neural dampening fields. No communication. No channeling. They go in warm, come out quiet.”
“Or don’t come out at all,” Ryker said flatly, examining the cell nearest to him. It was empty, but the cot inside looked more like a slab: something you’d strap a body to, not sleep on. Restraints discreetly recessed along the edges. A fine gray mist clung to the corners of the ceiling - a chemical suppressant, maybe. Or something worse.
“They’re not all criminals,” Ryker said after a moment. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.
The functionary stiffened. “They’re all threats.”
He passed another wing, this one active. Two detainees were visible through the smartglass both sitting stone still, eyes hollow. No marks. No bruises. Just an absence of... will. He’d seen that look before. In soldiers who’d survived things no one should. And in himself, in the mirror, once.
A panel near the door blinked green as they approached. The functionary hesitated, then motioned him forward.
“You’ll oversee final inspection,” he said. “From today forward, this facility falls under special jurisdiction. CCD Protocol Warden-8.”
Warden-8. Ryker had heard of it. The code name for the black-level sites that didn’t exist. Sites where due process was a myth and containment meant forever.
He nodded, slow.
"Fine. I’ll need access to security routing, staff logs, and the override protocols.”
“That’s... unusual,” the man said.
“Yeah,” Ryker replied. “So’s sending me in to test your systems. If there's a hole, I'll blow it wide open.”
He moved on before the man could answer, boots silent on the polished floor. He let the walls close behind him with a hiss, left alone with the quiet hum of the corridor and the weight in his gut that hadn't eased since stepping inside.
He wasn’t sure if he was the jailer now or just another version of the prisoner.
So imagine his surprise when he got summoned. In person.
Ryker didn’t like surprises.
And he especially didn’t like Butryka.
The place had once been his own personal hell. Back when Oriena had twisted his thoughts into string and watched him tangle himself in it. That bitch had left marks, even if the bruises were long gone. But he’d taken the assignment. Not because he was loyal. Because he was suspicious. Some small voice in the back of his skull told him this smelled like a trap.
But Ryker had learned a thing or two since last time. And this time, he had a plan.
Coming in as official oversight with credentials gleaming and name logged was a different beast entirely. No cold intake cell. No head mask. No guards shoving him into an overcrowded cell. They waved him through like he was royalty. The facial scan barely buzzed before unlocking. And the real kicker? They didn’t even pat him down.
The switchblade in his jacket pocket felt heavy now, more like an insult than insurance. He almost handed it over out of spite, just to prove a point. But the guards were already ignoring him, scanning someone else. Uniforms crisp. Eyes flat. Not one face was familiar.
Good. Or maybe bad. Hard to say anymore.
The second thing he noticed was the change in the air.
Butryka used to reek of damp concrete, old piss, and desperation. Now it smelled sterile. Cold. Artificial, like metal cooled too quickly. The corridor ahead gleamed like something out of a high-budget space thriller. Matte gray paneling along the walls. Embedded lights that adjusted hue as he passed. Cameras that tracked his movement without blinking. No keys. No locks. Just soft biometric clicks as doors whispered open.
“Nice place,” he muttered. “Shame about the purpose.”
A functionary with sharp eyes and a smooth uniform led him deeper into the prison. No name offered. Just the practiced tone of someone who’d forgotten how to speak without clearing everything through three layers of protocol first.
"This block’s nearly complete," the functionary said, gesturing to a line of cells with thick, transparent doors. Smartglass, Ryker noted; opaque from the outside but letting in just enough light to make the occupants visible from inside. “Each one is isolated by directional neural dampening fields. No communication. No channeling. They go in warm, come out quiet.”
“Or don’t come out at all,” Ryker said flatly, examining the cell nearest to him. It was empty, but the cot inside looked more like a slab: something you’d strap a body to, not sleep on. Restraints discreetly recessed along the edges. A fine gray mist clung to the corners of the ceiling - a chemical suppressant, maybe. Or something worse.
“They’re not all criminals,” Ryker said after a moment. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.
The functionary stiffened. “They’re all threats.”
He passed another wing, this one active. Two detainees were visible through the smartglass both sitting stone still, eyes hollow. No marks. No bruises. Just an absence of... will. He’d seen that look before. In soldiers who’d survived things no one should. And in himself, in the mirror, once.
A panel near the door blinked green as they approached. The functionary hesitated, then motioned him forward.
“You’ll oversee final inspection,” he said. “From today forward, this facility falls under special jurisdiction. CCD Protocol Warden-8.”
Warden-8. Ryker had heard of it. The code name for the black-level sites that didn’t exist. Sites where due process was a myth and containment meant forever.
He nodded, slow.
"Fine. I’ll need access to security routing, staff logs, and the override protocols.”
“That’s... unusual,” the man said.
“Yeah,” Ryker replied. “So’s sending me in to test your systems. If there's a hole, I'll blow it wide open.”
He moved on before the man could answer, boots silent on the polished floor. He let the walls close behind him with a hiss, left alone with the quiet hum of the corridor and the weight in his gut that hadn't eased since stepping inside.
He wasn’t sure if he was the jailer now or just another version of the prisoner.