# Chapter 12: A Brother's Secret
The words echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence of the laundry room. *He was cultivating.* The white-hot fire of Barrett's rage extinguished, replaced by a cold, hollow void. His arm went slack, the pressure on Taaland's throat vanishing. His brother. Liam. The quiet, steady man who believed in rules and order. A cultivator? It was impossible. A lie. A final, desperate trick from a beaten man. But the look in Taaland's eyes, the certainty, the mocking pity… it felt true. It felt horribly, devastatingly true. In that moment of paralyzing disbelief, Taaland struck. He drove his knee into Barrett's gut with explosive force, slamming him back against the vibrating dryer. As Barrett doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn't come, Taaland shoved him aside and barked an order. His guards, though groggy, scrambled to their feet. The gang leader gave Barrett one last, contemptuous look before melting back into the steam, his escape route already planned. The ambush had succeeded, and it had failed completely.
Barrett slid down the hot metal side of the dryer, his breath coming in ragged, painful gulps. The world narrowed to the throbbing in his abdomen and the relentless, deafening hum of the machines. He could hear Eirik shouting his name, the sound distant and warped, as if filtered through water. A hand grabbed his arm, pulling, insistent. Eirik. His face was a mask of urgency, sweat and grime smearing his pale features. He was limping, favoring his still-healing leg, but his grip was iron.
"Get up, Barrett! Now!" Eirik's voice was a low, urgent hiss, cutting through the mechanical roar. "They'll have the whole guard detail down here in minutes. Move!"
Barrett couldn't. His limbs felt like lead, his mind a frozen wasteland. *He was cultivating.* The phrase was a parasite, burrowing into his thoughts, poisoning every memory he held dear. Liam teaching him to catch a baseball. Liam graduating from the academy, his face shining with pride. Liam's last letter, talking about the 'unpleasantness' at Blackstone but assuring him he was handling it 'by the book.' It was all a lie. A carefully constructed fiction.
"Barrett!" Eirik shook him, the motion violent enough to rattle his teeth. "I swear to God, if you don't get up, I will leave you here. This was your plan, your revenge. You don't get to have a breakdown in the middle of it."
The words, harsh as they were, were a lifeline. They cut through the fog. Revenge. His revenge was built on a foundation of sand. With a guttural groan, Barrett pushed himself to his feet, using the dryer for support. His body ached, a symphony of new bruises and old pains, but it was nothing compared to the cavernous emptiness in his chest. He let Eirik steer him, his movements robotic, his gaze unfocused. They moved through the twisting corridors of the laundry facility, the steam their only cover. The scent of bleach burned his nostrils, a chemical clean that felt like an insult to the filth now coating his soul.
They didn't go back the way they came. Eirik, ever the survivor, had planned for failure. He led Barrett to a rusted maintenance hatch in the floor, hidden behind a stack of empty chemical drums. The air that wafted up was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. "Service tunnels," Eirik grunted, prying it open with a crowbar he'd stashed earlier. "Not on any official schematics. The Warden's private little rat maze."
Barrett lowered himself into the darkness, the metal rungs of the ladder cold and slimy beneath his hands. He landed in ankle-deep water, the splash echoing in the oppressive silence. Eirik followed, pulling the hatch shut above them, plunging them into near-total blackness. The only light was the faint, sickly green glow of emergency strips placed at long intervals, turning the tunnel into a grotesque, subterranean artery. For a long time, the only sound was their splashing footsteps and the distant, muffled groan of the prison's guts.
They finally emerged into a place Barrett had never seen. It was a forgotten storage room deep within the prison's underbelly, a space the size of a large cell, crammed with broken furniture and obsolete electronics. A single, bare bulb hung from a frayed cord, casting a jaundiced, flickering light. This was their sanctuary, the headquarters of their fledgling cell, The Ghosts. It felt less like a base of operations and more like a tomb.
Eirik leaned against a rusted filing cabinet, his breathing labored. He watched Barrett, his eyes sharp and analytical. "You're going to have to talk about it eventually."
Barrett stood in the center of the room, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "He was lying," Barrett said, the words tasting like ash. "It was a trick. A way to get in my head."
"Was it?" Eirik countered, his voice devoid of its usual cynicism, replaced by a weary pragmatism. "Think, Barrett. Use that head of yours for something other than charging in. Why would he lie about that? What does he gain? He was beaten. He was about to die. A man like that doesn't waste his last breath on a pointless mind game. He uses a weapon. And the truth, Barrett… the truth is the sharpest weapon there is."
Barrett sank onto a rickety stool, the wood groaning in protest. He wanted to argue, to scream that Eirik was wrong, that his brother was a hero, a victim. But the logic was inescapable. The certainty in Taaland's eyes. The way the revelation had shattered Barrett's focus so completely. It was a calculated, perfect strike.
"Why?" Barrett's voice was barely a whisper. "Why would Liam… how?"
"Because he had to," Eirik said, pushing off the cabinet and beginning to pace, a slow, limping circuit of the small room. "You think this place is just about gangs and contraband? That's the surface game. The real game is Essence. It's the only currency that matters in here. It's the difference between being a wolf and being sheep."
He stopped in front of Barrett, his shadow falling over him. "You've seen it. You've felt it. That little spark inside you, that extra speed, that strength you didn't have yesterday. That's Essence. And in Blackstone, you either cultivate it, or you get consumed by someone who has. It's that simple."
Eirik gestured around the room, at the decaying remnants of a forgotten world. "Most inmates, they're forced into it. They get a taste, maybe from a fight, maybe from a near-death experience. They realize they're stronger, faster. They think it's a gift. Then the gangs come calling. The Skullcrushers, the Rust-Eaters… they're just recruitment pools for the real powers. They offer protection, a place in the hierarchy, in exchange for loyalty and a cut of your Essence. You refuse, you end up like Liam. Or worse."
The implication landed like a physical blow. "You think he was recruited?"
"I think he was a threat," Eirik corrected. "Liam was a guard. An outsider. But he was also smart, disciplined. If he awakened to Essence, he wouldn't be like these thugs. He'd be methodical. He'd progress fast. Too fast. The established order, the people who really run this place, they don't like surprises. They don't like someone new climbing the ladder without their permission. It upsets the balance."
He knelt, bringing himself to Barrett's eye level. "They didn't kill your brother because he was asking questions, Barrett. They killed him because he was becoming too powerful. He was a loose cannon. A talented cultivator who wasn't part of their system. He was a threat to the hierarchy."
Barrett's head was spinning. The entire narrative of his quest for vengeance had been torn apart and rewritten into something he didn't recognize. His brother wasn't a martyr for justice; he was a player in a game he didn't know he was playing, eliminated for breaking the rules. His revenge wasn't about punishing corrupt thugs; it was about avenging a rival in a secret war.
"So Taaland… he was just the one who pulled the trigger?" Barrett asked, his voice hollow.
"Taaland is a mid-level boss. A manager. He gets his orders from higher up. He was likely told to make an example of your brother. To send a message to any other guards who might get ideas." Eirik stood up, wincing as he put weight on his bad leg. "Your brother's mistake wasn't in seeking justice. It was in being good at it. In being powerful."
The weight of it was crushing. Barrett had come to Blackstone to burn it to the ground for what it did to his brother. Now he was being told his brother was part of the very fire he wanted to fight. The rage was gone, and in its place was a chilling, profound confusion. Who was the enemy? Was it Taaland? The Skullcrushers? Or was it the entire, invisible system that had forced his brother down this path in the first place?
A faint buzz from the corner of the room drew their attention. Tucked away on a dusty shelf was a modified datapad, its screen glowing with an incoming, encrypted transmission. Anya. Eirik limped over and tapped the screen, his face grim. He read the message, his expression hardening into a mask of cold fury.
"What is it?" Barrett asked, pushing himself to his feet, a new dread coiling in his gut.
Eirik didn't look at him. He just turned the datapad so Barrett could see the screen. The message was short, clipped, and terrifying.
`TO: SGT. COLE`
`FR: INNER CIRCLE`
`SUBJ: LAUNDRY INCIDENT`
`AUTHORIZATION GRANTED FOR CLEANUP OF ALL LOOSE ENDS. AMBUSH TEAM DESIGNATED HIGH PRIORITY TARGETS. USE DISCRETION. TERMINATE WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE.`
The words swam before Barrett's eyes. *Cleanup. Loose ends. Terminate.* They weren't just talking about Taaland's guards. They were talking about them. About him and Eirik. Their little ambush hadn't just failed; it had painted a target on their backs for the most powerful and ruthless faction in the prison. Sergeant Cole, the sadistic guard who'd taken pleasure in their pain, had just been given a license to hunt them. And he wouldn't be coming for them with batons and stun guns. He'd be coming with everything he had.
The cold void in Barrett's chest was suddenly filled with a new, ice-cold fire. It wasn't the blind rage of before. It was something sharper, more focused. The confusion about his brother remained, a wound that would not close, but it no longer paralyzed him. It had been eclipsed by a more immediate, more primal imperative.
Survival.
Eirik met his gaze, the same understanding passing between them. The game had changed. They were no longer hunters. They were the hunted.