chapter 8

Next in Owen's plan to take over the prison is creating his own group.

Even though he has power, he knows that he can't reign over the prison alone. He needs lackeys to handle the dirty work for him—foot soldiers who will follow his commands without question. The kind of men who can be both useful and expandable.

To accomplish this goal, the next morning, Owen lounges on a bench in the yard, his eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk. Inmates mill about in clusters, their postures and expressions revealing alliances, rivalries, and opportunities.

Amidst all that, Owen's gaze locks onto Jamal, standing alone in a distance.

Jamal is tall, with an average build with a face that screams danger. Yet, curiously, he isn't affiliated with any group—a lone wolf in a den of predators.

"Perfect," Owen mutters under his breath.

Sliding off the bench, he moves casually at first, glancing around to ensure no one is watching. Then, in the blink of an eye, he vanishes into thin air.

Invisible, Owen approaches Jamal from behind, slipping a hand into his pocket to retrieve the gun he stole. With eerie precision, he presses the cold barrel against Jamal's back.

"Do not move," Owen whispers, his voice low and icy.

Jamal stiffens instantly, his shoulders going rigid as a chill runs down his spine. His breath hitches.

"L-let's talk about this, man. Don't shoot."

Owen leans in closer, his breath ghosting against Jamal's ear. "I'm the Phantom," he murmurs. "And you're going to work for me now."

Jamal's eyes widen. His lips tremble. "Ph-Phantom? Th-The guy who shot that officer?"

"That's right. That one" Owen's tone drips with menace. "Now listen carefully. You've got half an hour to gather five men and bring them to the restroom. If you fail..." He lets the words hang, the cold pressure of the gun doing the rest of the talking.

"O-okay. Okay! Just don't shoot!" Jamal stammers.

Without another word, Owen withdraws the gun and walks away, still invisible. As he distances himself, a smirk stretches across his face.

Jamal, left frozen for a moment, exhales shakily, his heart hammering against his chest. The sensation of the gun barrel lingers like a ghostly reminder of his predicament.

"I don't have a choice," he mutters, shaking his head and turning to scan the yard.

Over the next thirty minutes, Jamal scrambles. He approaches his cellmates, men he's shared smuggled cigarettes and whispered conversations with.

"Hey, I need you to come with me," he says, trying to keep his voice steady.

"What for?" one of them asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Just... trust me. You'll see."

He repeats this process with others, piecing together a group of five. Their curiosity grows, as does their unease.

"Why are you dragging us to the restroom?" one man finally demands as they near the dingy, graffiti-covered space.

"Look, just follow me, okay? It's important," Jamal replies, his voice tight with stress.

They file into the restroom, its flickering light casting an ominous glow. The group shuffles uncomfortably, the smell of mildew and damp concrete pressing in.

"Alright, Jamal," another man snaps, arms crossed. "Who are we supposed to meet here? This some kind of prank?"

Jamal swallows hard. "He's... here. Phantom! I brought them. Please, show yourself!"

A beat of silence stretches thin. One man chuckles nervously. "This is ridiculous—"

"Good job, Jamal," a disembodied voice interrupts, cutting through the room like a blade.

Every head jerks up. The men freeze, their eyes darting wildly.

"Wh-who said that?" one whispers.

"Do not move," the voice continues, calm but laced with quiet threat. "If you so much as twitch, you'll be shot on the spot. Understand?"

Nods come hesitantly. A bead of sweat trickles down Jamal's temple.

"I am The Phantom," Owen says, his voice echoing eerily. "You've heard of me. I'm taking over this prison, and I'm looking for men smart enough to join me."

The silence is deafening until one brave soul speaks up, his voice quivering. "And... and if we refuse?"

Owen's laughter fills the room, cold and mocking. "Refuse? Then you die. Betray me later? You die. Oppose me? You guessed it—you die."

A suffocating fear wraps around the group. One by one, they nod frantically. "We're in! We'll join!" they cry out, desperation thick in their voices.

"Good," Owen replies smoothly. "Now, your first order: recruit more men. Spread the word—this is my prison now."

Then, the invisible presence vanishes, leaving the group shaken but obedient.

-------------------------------------------

Within a week, "The Phantom Group" grows into a formidable force. Members boast of their affiliation in hushed tones, while others join out of fear or necessity.

As more and more inmates join, the group begins to secures key resources, wresting control of the kitchen and contraband supply chains. They dominate recreational spaces and enforce order—or chaos—at Owen's command.

Owen himself amplifies his legend with ghostly antics. Guards report hearing whispers in empty hallways. Rival gang leaders mysteriously fall, their bodies found beaten and broken.

The prison teeters on the brink of chaos. Top groups fight viciously for dominance, while the warden struggles to regain control. All the while, Owen's identity remains a secret, his myth growing with each calculated move.

And yet, Owen grows restless. All this strength has fed his ego and he has grown bold. And now his deeper desires are beginning to slowly creep out.

One afternoon, Owen sits on a bench in the yard, his head tilted back to bask in the sun's warmth. Then, he hears murmur of voices that pull his attention.

Opening his eyes, he spots a group of female prisoners standing in the distance, their laughter carrying on the breeze. His gaze lingers, focusing on one woman in particular—the sway of her hips, the curve of her form.

A dark grin spreads across his face.

Everyone have weaknesses, and strong one's weakness is that they can't control their desires.

He stands up and in an instant, he turns invisible once more. Owen walks towards them, approaching silently.

His heart pounds as he stands behind her and crouches. He stares intently at her big, round ass, leaning his head ahead.

His hand trembles slightly before he slowly lifts and extend it.

Then, he touch her butts, grabbing them tightly.

She yelps, spinning around instantly. "Who's there?"

Her friends freeze, eyes scanning the empty space.

"What happened?" one asks.

"I felt... someone touching me!"

"But there's no one here. Are you sure you felt someone touching you." another replies nervously.

"L-Let's just go," the first woman whispers, her voice shaking. "I don't feel good here."

The group hurriedly leaves, their footsteps echoing as Owen sits back on the ground, watching them go.

"Mnn," he murmurs to himself, his voice low and dark. "I. Want. Her."

His deep, darker desires are beginning to surface and someone in particular is enjoying the scene more than Owen himself.

Far away, in a luxurious mansion bathed in golden light, Ren watches the scene unfold on a magical large screen floating before him.

"What an ambitious little guy," he muses, a grin tugging at his lips. "Don't you think, Alfred?"

"Yes, my lord," Alfred replies, standing at attention beside him.

Ren chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "He's entertaining, no doubt about that. But he's had his fun. Now, it's time I give him the challenge."

His laughter echoes through the room, carrying with it the promise of chaos to come.