prison

Blackmoor – Downtown

The air was heavy. It was dawn. Silhouettes hurried through the streets, all rushing to work. Whether dressed in uniforms or suits, no one paid attention to anyone else.

Amid this small chaos, Arthur stood motionless. His gaze was fixed on a colossal building, ignoring everything else. As usual, he wore a black shirt and worn-out trousers. A torn backpack hung from his shoulder, and at his feet sat two jugs of vinegar.

Blackmoor Prison… One of the most secure places in the city.

A bitter smile touched his lips.

"Am I really going to do this?"

A sigh escaped his mouth, followed by a light chuckle. A laugh almost mocking.

"Heh…"

He knew the consequences. After tonight, he would no longer be a simple citizen. He would become a criminal, a target to eliminate.

But if that was the price to pay… then so be it.

Arthur took one last breath, then grabbed his jugs and disappeared into the shadows. A few minutes later, he was out of sight, concealed in a construction site adjacent to the prison.

His objective: the scaffolding. He had to climb.

But an ascent like this was no easy feat.

If two words could describe Arthur, they would be effort and perseverance. The Hawthorn family had always lived by these principles. He, Michael, and Anne were the ones who brought in money. Their work was hard, but they had never had a choice. Years of labor had shaped Arthur's body, sculpted by hardship.

However, he was no mountain of muscle. In truth, he barely surpassed the average. His physique was not the result of meticulous training but of survival. Hard work forged the body, but without proper nutrition, one could never develop fully.

And hunger… Hunger was an old friend of the Hawthorns.

There were days when they didn't eat enough. Others when they didn't eat at all.

But Arthur was not one to complain. The climb would be difficult, and time was against him.

The first level was a challenge in itself. Climbing with a heavy backpack and two jugs full of vinegar was almost an impossible feat. His muscles screamed for a break, but his gaze remained steady, his eyes burning with determination.

Minutes stretched. Effort, effort. Pain, pain.

After an hour of climbing, his body was on fire, but he had made it. Sixth floor.

Without wasting a second, Arthur reached into his jacket and pulled out a watch. A key element of his plan.

For months, he had studied this prison. He had watched the guards, analyzed their rounds, memorized their habits. Every detail mattered. And after weeks of observation, he had found a weakness.

The north sector guards had a particular habit: they were always late for their 6 a.m. rounds.

The reason?

Arthur had done his research.

Before starting their shifts, these guards discreetly brought prostitutes into their offices. What they did there? He could guess. But he had neither the time nor the desire to confirm his suspicions.

He glanced at his watch.

6:05.

A slight frown.

"Climbing took longer than expected…"

Originally, he had planned to be in position by 5:30. But nothing ever went as planned in this world.

And Arthur knew that better than anyone.

With a swift motion, Arthur opened both jugs. Instantly, a sharp acidic smell filled the air. White vinegar.

A simple household product for some.

But for someone like Arthur, who understood its true potential, it was a tool.

One step, two steps, then three. He reached a ventilation grille. A smile formed on his face.

"Just as I thought… The grille is already corroded by filth. Studying the building's blueprints wasn't a waste of time."

He spoke to himself as he carefully poured the liquid.

A faint hissing sound rose as the vinegar began its work. A thin smoke curled into the air, slowly but surely eating away at the steel. Arthur clenched his teeth. The stench was unbearable, the fumes stinging his eyes. He turned his head away, but his plan was working.

He had studied the composition of the materials used in the prison's drainage system. It wasn't complicated. Across Blackmoor, the same aging infrastructure was used everywhere.

Over time, rust and humidity had weakened certain parts of the evacuation system, particularly this ventilation grille directly beneath him. By pouring a large quantity of concentrated vinegar, he would trigger a chemical reaction with the accumulated limestone, releasing an acidic gas capable of corroding the metal.

Arthur stepped back slightly, watching the first traces of corrosion spread under the liquid's effect.

It was only a matter of minutes.

Meanwhile, inside the prison…

Three men in prisoner uniforms—white jumpsuits marked with black checkers—screamed under the torture.

In front of them, a man in a black suit watched in silence. His red kepi sat firmly atop his head, exuding an air of absolute authority.

But what stood out the most about him…

Was the blade.

A dagger, entirely red, heated to the point of glowing.

The blade's intense light was the only illumination in the pitch-black room.

In a cold, measured tone, the high-ranking officer spoke:

"Bastards of the Serpents. Speak if you want to live."

His voice was deep. Merciless.

One of the prisoners, his breath ragged, lifted his head slightly. His face was twisted with pain, his body covered in bruises.

"I… I'll talk. Please… Stop… I'll tell you everything…"

The officer slowly turned his head toward him.

A smile formed beneath the shadow of his kepi.

"You're finally speaking, Infini…"

"Very well. Speak."

The prisoner—a short man with shoulder-length black hair—lifted his gaze. Strangely, despite the suffering, a strange glimmer shone in his eyes.

A friendly smile stretched across his lips.

"Come closer," he whispered in a weak voice. "I don't have the strength to speak loudly anymore…"

The officer sniffed, skeptical. But after a brief hesitation, he took a step forward.

What did he have to fear?

The prisoner was tied up, broken. Powerless.

He leaned in. "I'm here. Speak. I don't have time."

The man took a shaky breath. His body trembled from the pain.

Then, slowly, he brought his lips close to the officer's ear and whispered:

"Go fuck yourself."

His voice was filled with hatred. With madness.

A moment of silence.

Then, without hesitation, the officer tightened his grip on the dagger—

And plunged it deep into the prisoner's thigh.

"AAAAHHH!!!"

A piercing scream echoed through the room, followed by hysterical laughter.

Blood sizzled as it dripped onto the ground, burning under the heat of the blade. The stench of scorched flesh filled the air.

"AHAHAHA!"

Laughter mixed with screams of agony.

Chaos swallowed the room whole.

And in that chamber of horror…

The executioner was trembling.