It was three o'clock in the afternoon. The weather was cloudy, typical for Gotham—gray skies threatening rain but never quite committing. It was time for the prisoners in Wayne's facility to go outside for their daily exercise period.
In one corner of the yard, some prisoners formed a small human wall, blocking the view of others and the prison guards making their rounds. Behind this improvised screen were two figures—one tall and muscular, one shorter and slighter.
"So that's your story? Huh?" The bald strong man lifted the smaller prisoner off the ground and pressed him against the concrete wall. His voice dripped with contempt. "A coward who didn't have the guts to join gang fights? A pathetic wretch who couldn't make it in the organization?"
Alex recognized the man easily. His name was Harik, and he was also a member of the Falcone family—though unlike Alex, Harik had actually climbed the ladder. He'd made his way to a mid-level enforcer position by being ruthless, having no bottom line, and never asking questions when orders came down from above.
The kind of man who moved bodies and didn't have nightmares about it afterward.
At breakfast that morning, Harik had sat at a table with his fellow inmates—other Falcone members who'd gravitated toward him like iron filings to a magnet—and complained loudly about the prison food. Others had echoed his complaints with the enthusiasm of people who needed someone to blame for their circumstances.
Alex had disagreed.
He'd kept his mouth shut about it, of course, but internally he'd thought the food was actually quite good. The staple items were standard fare but there were even fruits, vegetables, and meat included in lunch and dinner. Breakfast consisted of milk, white bread, a boiled egg, oatmeal, and a piece of fruit.
For Alex, this was no different from his usual breakfast outside the prison when he could afford one. The taste was decent. The portions were enough to fill his stomach. Nobody was trying to poison him or extract rent money from his meal.
For Harik, though, this clearly wasn't the meal he expected.
There was no ham, bacon, butter, or honey for the toast. No yogurt mixed into the cereal. All the food tasted average—obviously not high-end goods imported from specialty suppliers. In short, Harik found the food bland and beneath his station.
For a prison, wasn't this food good enough? Most people would think so.
But the Falcone family's money in Gotham's judicial system and political machinery wasn't spent for nothing. Harik was a mid-level member of a major crime family. In the old days—before the legal war between the families—if he'd been imprisoned, he could have paid for genuine ham, bacon, honey, and yogurt for breakfast. Premium meals delivered from outside. Special treatment that came with being connected.
And then he would have been released within weeks through legal maneuvering, bribed judges, and family lawyers.
Those days were over.
Now everyone around Harik looked at Alex with unfriendly expressions. This group of prisoners were the bottom tier of the Falcone organization—foot soldiers, enforcers, the expendable muscle. After entering prison, they'd still subconsciously formed a hierarchy with mid-level members like Harik as the core, the people who gave orders and expected obedience.
Alex had dared to silently disagree with Harik's assessment of the food. That alone made him hostile in their eyes. In the gang world, disagreement with a superior was disloyalty.
"You know what happens to cowards in here?" Harik's grip tightened on Alex's shirt. "You think the guards are going to—"
At that moment, someone interrupted the atmosphere.
"Fight! Fight!" A cheerful voice called from the side, carrying the enthusiasm of someone announcing a sporting event. "One punch will add one year to each member of your group's sentence! Plus a fine of one hundred dollars times your respective sentence lengths! Medical expenses will also be charged to the aggressor!"
"Who the hell dares—" Harik turned his head with a ferocious expression, ready to deal with whoever was stupid enough to interfere.
Then he saw a familiar face.
His hideous behavior stopped abruptly. His voice became fearful, almost timid. "Disaster. Disaster star."
At that moment, the group of prisoners in the corner looked at each other with dawning horror and slowly backed away. They'd intended to form a human wall to block the guards' sight—standard procedure for prison yard violence. But they hadn't expected him to be here, wearing the same orange prison uniform as everyone else.
"Unexpected?" Jude smiled with the pleasant cheer of someone greeting old friends. "I heard you complaining about the food during breakfast. Did you know that the prison guards and I eat the exact same food as you gentlemen?"
This was the truth, though few inmates had considered it. Except for some guards who went outside to purchase their own meals, most of the prison staff actually found the standard cafeteria food perfectly adequate: cheap, sufficient, hygienic, nutritious enough.
After all, the people who came to work as prison guards were ordinary working-class people from the East End—the same neighborhoods most inmates came from. Some of the guards' dietary standards outside the prison weren't any better than what the cafeteria served.
Both Harik and Alex were stunned into silence, taking a few seconds to process the truthfulness of Jude's words and what they implied.
After recovering his composure, Harik asked in a carefully controlled tone: "Why are you here? In Gen pop?"
"I was sentenced for illegal photography and distribution." Jude's explanation came out smooth and rehearsed, the kind of cover story that had been worked out in advance. "I sold photographs of various gangsters I encountered on the street to several Gotham newspapers. Invasion of privacy, unauthorized distribution of likenesses, that sort of thing. So I have to spend one year in jail, during which time I'm performing some administrative duties and cooking as part of my rehabilitation."
He smiled wider. "Those newspapers seemed quite supportive, actually. Said they'd contact me again after I had some newsworthy material from inside the facility. So please—" He gestured at Alex and Harik. "—don't just stare at me. Keep hitting him! Every time you throw a punch, my sentence gets reduced for providing evidence of prison violence!"
Harik immediately released Alex, practically dropping him.
"Come on, Harik." Jude's voice took on a mocking edge. "You're a member of the Falcone family. A serious gangster who lives on the edge of a knife. Be brave! Don't lose face in front of everyone!"
Harik turned a deaf ear to the taunts.
Because he was a member of the Falcone family. A legitimate gangster who'd lived on the edge of violence his entire adult life. Which meant he understood exactly when to fight and when to retreat. When to show strength and when to bend.
The disaster star wasn't someone you fought. He was someone you survived by avoiding.
Harik jerked his head at his followers and walked away without another word. The human wall dissolved, prisoners scattering across the exercise yard like they'd never been gathered in that corner at all.
Before Alex could stammer out a thank you, Jude patted him on the shoulder once and walked away, whistling tunelessly.
From that day forward, Alex began to understand what Commissioner Gordon had said to him during processing.
"The years in jail might be the most human years you ever live."
Life in Wayne's minimum security facility was surprisingly regular. Almost peaceful, in a way Alex's life outside had never been.
Wake up in the morning. Make the bed—actually required, with inspections. Roll call at six. Then breakfast in the cafeteria where nobody tried to shake him down for protection money or steal his food.
Work assignments during the day. Simple tasks with clear expectations and no boss screaming at him or threatening to dock his pay for imaginary infractions.
Lights out at nine in the evening. Gen pop Inmates could talk quietly at night if they wanted—the prison didn't restrict conversation, wasn't worried about them communicating or organizing or planning escapes. Because everyone knew the situation outside. Escaping from prison was meaningless when Gotham's streets were more dangerous than the cells.
Alex no longer had to be awakened by phone calls at three or four in the morning, then brave the freezing wind to clean crime scenes and dispose of bodies. No more blood under his fingernails that wouldn't wash out no matter how hard he scrubbed. No more wondering if tonight would be the night he caught a stray bullet meant for someone else.
His diet became healthy and hygienic. Three meals a day, regular as clockwork. He wouldn't go hungry. Wouldn't have to choose between eating and buying his mother's medication.
His daily routine became simple, structured, safe. There was no boss in the prison to abuse him, because everyone was an inmate following the same rules. He only needed to focus on his assigned work and the educational programs offered in the evenings.
The labor wages in Wayne's prison weren't set at the exploitative rates common in other private facilities—those places that paid $0.10 per hour and treated inmates like slave labor. Here, the pay was half the normal working wage outside. Still low, but not insulting.
And there were almost no additional expenses inside. The only place that required payment was the commissary, and even those prices were reasonable.
He could send letters or make phone calls to his mother at the same rates as outside the prison. He could buy cigarettes at normal retail prices. In other private prisons he'd heard about, phone calls cost a dollar per minute and cigarettes cost a dollar per stick—price gouging that turned communication with family into a luxury most inmates couldn't afford.
Here, there was no charge for headphones to listen to the television. No skimping on heating during winter or hot water for showers. The only concerning thing was that medical care was limited—but since the sanitary conditions were decent and the food was nutritious, prisoners rarely got sick enough to need a doctor.
Most incredibly, Alex could send money to his mother from prison. Part of his labor wages could be transferred directly to her account, and the Wayne Group didn't deduct a single dollar from it. Every penny he earned and chose to send went straight to her.
After a month, Alex and most of the prisoners in minimum security came to a strange realization:
The living conditions inside the prison were actually better than what they'd had outside.
The portion of their labor wages taken by the Wayne Group seemed to be genuinely used for infrastructure—maintenance, food quality, heating, programs. It wasn't perfect, but it was honest in a way Gotham rarely was.
For men who'd spent their lives being exploited by landlords, employers, and criminal organizations, the transparent exploitation of prison labor somehow felt more fair than the chaos outside.
Until one day, Alex saw a group of depressed new prisoners being transferred into the general population area. Among them was a face he recognized—a big shot who was famous throughout Gotham.
"Sal Maroni?" Alex stared in disbelief. "When was he transferred to Wayne Prison's Gen pop?"
"Three days ago, man." Another inmate shrugged. "Guess he finally paid for the upgrade from maximum security. Took him a month to arrange it, from what I heard. Must have cost a fortune."
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