Wednesday couldn't come fast enough.

I spent the next three days rebuilding my wards and trying not to jump at shadows. Every sound in the tier made me tense. Every footstep outside Cell 47. Every voice raised in the Pit. My nerves were shot and I knew it, which just made it worse.

Books watched me like a hawk. Made sure I ate at meals. Talked me through the spiral when I got too deep in my own head. Lent me his philosophy books when I couldn't sleep, which was most nights. Marcus Aurelius didn't have much to say about magical assassins, but the Stoic shit helped anyway. Control what you can control. Accept what you can't. Focus on the present moment.

The present moment involved a lot of sitting in my cell, staring at where the message had been, and running through everything I knew about defensive magic. Which wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

I reinforced the wards Tuesday night. Three layers again—deflection, confusion, blood ward. But I added something new. A trigger sigil. If someone tried to break through, it wouldn't just alert me. It would record the attack. Show me the magical signature. Give me information about who was doing it and how.

Took two hours of focus and left me with a splitting headache, but it was worth it. Next time they came knocking—and there would be a next time—I'd learn something useful.

Wednesday morning finally arrived. Officer Gibbins showed up at 7:30 sharp, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Same as always. He didn't even glance up from his phone as he unlocked my cell.

"Library cart, O'Reilly. Let's go."

"Yes, sir."

The cart was already waiting in the hallway—four shelves of books on wheels, the cheapest kind of metal cart the provincial government could buy. Some of the wheels squeaked. The books were a mix of donated paperbacks, library discards, and whatever the prison system thought we should read. Mostly thrillers, some westerns, religious texts, and the occasional philosophy book that Books had requisitioned.

We started on 3-Alpha, which was my tier. Moved cell by cell, inmates exchanging books through the slots. Most guys just wanted something to pass the time. Read a book, trade it in, get another. The literary equivalent of cigarettes.

But some guys wanted more.

"Yo, Bruja." Cell 51—Marcus Webb, Black Kingsmen associate, doing five for assault. "Got something for your girl?"

"Depends. She got something for me?"

"Twenty. Protection thing. Same as before."

I glanced at Gibbins. He was three cells ahead, scrolling TikTok or whatever the fuck guards did on their phones. Hadn't looked up once.

"Friday," I said quietly. "Yard time. Northeast corner."

"Good looking out."

The exchange took five seconds. Books through the slot, nod, move on. Officer Gibbins never noticed. Never cared. He was here to escort the cart, not police what inmates talked about. As long as nobody stabbed anybody, he was golden.

We worked through 3-Beta next. Then down to 2-Alpha.

Vinnie Pipes was in Cell 24.

Vincent Calabrese looked exactly like what he was—old-school Italian mob, doing twenty years for racketeering and refusing to testify. Fifty-six years old, gray hair slicked back, reading glasses perched on his nose. He was reading when we rolled up, some hardcover about the Cosa Nostra that someone's family had sent in.

"Morning, Vinnie."

He looked up. Smiled. The kind of smile that probably charmed judges and terrified witnesses, depending on the situation. "Thor. Good to see you, kid. How's tricks?"

"Complicated." I kept my voice low. Gibbins was four cells down, completely absorbed. "Need information."

"Yeah?" The smile faded. Vinnie closed his book, set it aside. Came to the door slot. "What kind?"

"Danny Keyes. Someone came after me. I need to know who Danny's connected to at the violent offenders facility. Who he could reach out to."

Vinnie went very still. The kind of still that meant his brain was working, running through contacts and connections and favors owed. After twenty years in organized crime, he knew people. Knew networks. Knew how to find information without asking obvious questions.

"Someone came after you? Inside here?"

"Yeah. Three nights ago."

"Fuck." He studied my face, looking for something. "You think Danny reached out from violent offenders? That's eighty miles away."

"I know it sounds crazy. But the timing's right. And whoever did it..." I paused, choosing my words carefully. Vinnie knew I did something—he'd paid me for his daughter's protection, never asked too many questions about how it worked. "They knew things. Personal things. Left a message."

"What'd it say?"

"'The Old Man sends his regards.'"

Vinnie's face did something complicated. Not quite fear. More like... recognition. Respect for a threat. The look you get when you realize the game just got serious.

"Your girl, the one I asked protection for. How's she doing?"

"Good. No problems." I'd done the working six months ago—basic wards on his daughter's apartment, protection from regular assholes. Nothing that would stop a professional, but enough to keep her safe from exes and stalkers and general Toronto bullshit. Vinnie had paid well. More importantly, he'd been respectful. Understood boundaries. Never asked me to cross lines.

Now I was calling in the favor.

"I'll make some calls," he said. "Got a nephew on the outside, runs some business. He knows people who know people. Violent offenders, someone with Danny's connections—that'll leave a trail. Someone brags. Someone talks. Someone owes money or favors. I'll find out who Danny's been in contact with."

"How long?"

"Few days. Maybe a week." He paused. "This person who came after you. They dangerous?"

I thought about my wards peeling away like tissue paper. The surgical precision. The message left in my cell.

"Yeah. Professional."

"Fuck." Vinnie ran a hand over his face. "Okay. Yeah. I'll prioritize this. You need anything else? Resources? Protection?"

"Information's enough. Just a name. Face if you can get it. Background, criminal history, whatever you can find."

"I'll get you what I can." He reached through the slot, offered his hand. I shook it. Firm grip, callused palm. Old-school handshake, sealing the deal. "Watch your back, kid. Someone comes at you from eighty miles out, they're not playing."

"I know."

"Good. Stay smart."

I moved on. Gibbins still hadn't looked up.

The rest of the library cart route was standard. Books exchanged, quiet requests for spells taken, promises made for Friday's yard time. My mental list grew—three protection sigils, two love spells, one curse that I'd probably refuse depending on the target. Business as usual.

Except nothing felt usual anymore.

Back in Cell 47 by 10:30. Books was on his bunk, reading. He looked up when I came in, question in his eyes.

"Vinnie's on it," I said. "Few days, maybe a week."

"Good." He closed his book, marking the page with a finger. "What about the Brotherhood?"

Right. Werner. I'd been putting that off. Partly because I knew what he'd want—more commitment, deeper involvement, turning me into their personal weapon. Partly because I was scared.

Not of Werner. Of what I might agree to if I was desperate enough.

"Tonight," I said. "Yard time. I'll talk to him then."

"Be careful what you promise."

"Yeah."

I spent the afternoon in my cell, reading. Not philosophy. Kraus's grimoire. The architecture of Cell 23 had held layers of techniques—protection, astral projection, thought-forms, blood magic. But there was other stuff too. Combat applications. Offensive wards. Ways to turn defense into attack.

I'd avoided that section before. Hadn't needed it. Now I read every word.

The grimoire wasn't a book—couldn't be, in prison. Instead, Kraus had encoded everything into the cell itself. Sigils carved under paint. Diagrams hidden in the grain of wood. Instructions written in layers of meaning, so you had to understand the basics before the advanced stuff even became visible.

I'd spent two years decoding it. Learning the language. Understanding how Kraus thought about magic.

Now I needed the war chapter.

It was there. Hidden in the corner where two walls met, a series of symbols that I'd thought were just protective wards. But when you looked at them right, when you understood the underlying grammar, they became something else. Instructions for aggressive magic. How to break someone else's wards. How to bind an enemy's will. How to kill from a distance.

I read it all.

Took notes mentally—never written, too dangerous if my cell got tossed. Memorized the key sigils. Understood the theory, even if I couldn't practice it yet. Binding magic was off-limits, violated my first principle. But knowing how it worked meant I could defend against it.

If they tried to enslave my will, I'd see it coming.

The killing curse, though...

I stared at those symbols for a long time. Kraus had used it. Multiple times, if the notes were accurate. It required three things: a clear line of sight (or astral projection to establish one), a personal item from the target (hair, blood, something with their essence), and the willingness to destroy another human being.

The third requirement was the hardest. Magic required belief. Conviction. If you didn't truly want them dead—if you hesitated, doubted, felt mercy—the working would fail. Possibly backfire. Cost you everything.

Kraus had been a true believer. Nazi occultist, ritualistic killer, man with no moral boundaries. He'd believed absolutely in his right to kill. That conviction powered his magic.

Could I do that? Kill someone with magic? Pour my will into their death, watch them die from eighty miles away, and feel nothing but satisfaction?

I didn't know. Hoped I'd never have to find out.

But I memorized the technique anyway. Just in case.

Yard time came at 1 PM. The afternoon was cold—February in Ontario, wind cutting across the open space like knives. I wore my prison-issue jacket, hands stuffed in pockets and headed for the weight pile.

Brotherhood territory. Always had been.

Werner was there, spotting Brick on the bench press. The big man was pushing plates, straining, veins standing out on his neck. Werner counted reps, patient and focused. He saw me coming but didn't acknowledge it. Waited until Brick finished his set, racked the bar, sat up breathing hard.

"O'Reilly." Werner's voice was neutral. Not friendly, not hostile. Transactional. "Wondered when you'd show up."

"Need to talk."

"Yeah. Figured." He glanced at Brick. "Give us a minute."

Brick nodded, grabbed his towel, and moved off. Werner settled onto the bench; arms crossed over his chest. Looking up at me. Forcing me to be the one who spoke first.

Power play. Small one. I let it slide.

"Someone tried to break into my cell three nights ago," I said. "Magical attack. Got through two of my three wards."

"Felt it." Werner's expression didn't change. "Whole tier felt it, anyone sensitive enough. You get a look at who?"

"Message. 'The Old Man sends his regards.'"

Werner went very still. "Danny Keyes."

"Yeah."

"Why?" His eyes locked on mine. Hard. Dangerous. "Why would Danny Keyes send someone after you from eighty miles away? You didn't testify against him. Weren't at his trial. What'd you do, Thor?"

This was it. The moment. I could lie, deflect, and make something up. But if I was asking the Brotherhood for help, they needed to know what they were protecting me from. And why.

And what I'd done.

I took a breath. "Because I'm the one who snitched on him."

The yard didn't actually go quiet. Basketball game kept going three courts over. Guys kept lifting, talking, and walking the fence line. But it felt like everything stopped. Like the whole prison was listening.

Werner's face went blank. Completely expressionless. Which was worse than anger. Way worse.

"Say that again."

"I snitched." My mouth was dry. "Danny Keyes. Anonymous call to Crimestoppers. I'm the reason he got charged with Rochelle's murder."

Werner stood up. Slowly. Six-one of Brotherhood enforcer, looking down at me like I was something stuck to his boot. His hand didn't move to his waistband—no shanks in the yard, too many guards—but the threat was there anyway.

"You're telling me," Werner said, voice very quiet, very controlled, "that you ratted. On an inmate. To the cops. And you're standing here, in our territory, asking for our protection?"

"I know how it sounds."

"Do you?" He took a step closer. I held my ground. Barely. "Do you have any fucking idea what we do to snitches, Thor? What everyone does to snitches? You've been walking around this prison for two years with a target on your back and you didn't think to mention this?"

"It was anonymous. Nobody knew."

"Danny knew. Clearly." Werner's jaw was tight. "Who else knows?"

"Books. That's it."

"Books." Werner processed that. "Your cellie knows you're a rat, and he didn't say shit to anyone. Why?"

"Because he understands why I did it."

"Enlighten me."

I met his eyes. Didn't flinch. "Danny stabbed his pregnant girlfriend seven times. Killed her and their unborn kid. I watched it happen—astral projection. He asked me to help him hide the murder weapon. I said no. Then I made sure he paid for it."

"By snitching."

"By making sure a child-killer didn't walk free. Yeah."

Werner stared at me. Long enough that I started calculating escape routes. How fast I could get to the fence. Whether I'd make it to the guards before the Brotherhood caught me. Probably not.

"You watching this?" Werner called over his shoulder.

Brick had stopped his workout. So had three other Brotherhood members scattered around the weight pile. All of them looking at me. All of them waiting for Werner's word.

One word and I was dead.

"Danny Keyes killed a pregnant woman," Werner said, loud enough for them to hear. "Stabbed her seven times. O'Reilly here witnessed it, got asked to help cover it up, refused, then dropped a dime to make sure Danny got charged."

Silence. Then Brick: "Kid murder?"

"Unborn, but yeah."

More silence. I watched the Brotherhood members processing. Prison had its own moral code. Don't snitch was rule one. But rule zero—the one that came before all others—was don't hurt kids. Even the Brotherhood had lines.

Brick spat on the ground. "Fuck Danny Keyes."

Werner nodded slowly. Turned back to me. "You should've told us two years ago."

"I know."

"You should've trusted us with this. Axel would've understood. I would've understood. We protect our people, Thor. But we can't protect you from threats we don't know about."

"I'm telling you now."

"Because you're desperate. Because someone's coming to kill you and you're out of options." Werner sat back down on the bench. Shook his head. "You've got magic, kid. You've got skill. You've even got principles—misguided sometimes, but you've got them. But you don't trust anyone. That's going to get you killed."

I didn't argue. He was right.

"So, here's how this works," Werner said. "You want our protection? Against a practitioner who's coming to bind you, enslave you, make you suffer for crossing Danny? That's going to cost more than standard rates."

"How much more?"

"You snitched. In prison, that's a death sentence. You're only alive right now because Danny killed a pregnant woman and because you've been useful to us. But useful isn't enough anymore. Not for this."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"You want our help? You fight for us. Not just defense. Offense. Someone threatens the Brotherhood; you deal with them. Magically. Permanently. And you do it without question, without hesitation, without your fucking principles getting in the way."

My stomach dropped. "You want me to kill for you."

"I want you to be one of us. Actually, one of us. Not just protected—committed. You take our ink. You take our oath. You become Brotherhood."

"I won't join. I've told you that."

"Then you don't get our protection." Werner stood up. "You're a snitch, Thor. That puts you at ground zero for respect despite your magic. If you didn't have value, you'd already be dead. So, prove your value. All in, or you're on your own."

I stood there in the freezing yard, wind cutting through my jacket, and understood exactly what he was offering.

Join the Brotherhood—fully, completely, ideology and all—or face a professional practitioner alone.

Become what I'd sworn not to be or die trying to stay myself.

"I need time to think," I said.

"You've got until Friday." Werner's voice was hard. Final. "After that, we withdraw protection. You're on your own. And Thor? If word gets out you're a snitch and we're not protecting you anymore? You won't last the weekend."

"Friday. Okay."

He nodded. Dismissal. But as I turned to go, he called out: "Hey."

I looked back.

"Danny killed a pregnant woman. That matters. It's the only reason we're having this conversation instead of me beating you to death right now." Werner's expression was unreadable. "But it doesn't buy you forever. Friday. Decide."

I stood there in the cold yard, wind biting my face, and thought about what he was asking. The Brotherhood had kept me alive for two years. Given me space to practice, resources to learn, protection from people who'd kill me otherwise. They'd never asked for murder before. Just spells. Workings. Magic that helped them without crossing into warfare.

Now Werner wanted a weapon. A practitioner who'd kill on command.

If I said no, I'd lose their protection. The practitioner would come for me and I'd face them alone. Maybe die. Probably die, if they were as good as that attack suggested.

If I said yes, I'd become what I'd sworn not to be. The Brotherhood's magical enforcer. Trading my principles for survival.

Books's voice in my head: One choice at a time. Make the right choice, even when it costs.

I didn't go back to my cell. Couldn't. The walls felt too close, the choice too heavy. Instead, I walked the yard perimeter, circling like a caged animal, trying to think.

Kill for the Brotherhood or face Danny's practitioner alone.

Trade my soul or die.

Great fucking options.

Books found me on my third lap. Fell into step beside me, hands in his own pockets, breath misting in the cold air.

"Heard you had a conversation with Werner," he said quietly.

"Word travels fast."

"Brotherhood members talking in the weight pile. Not exactly subtle." Books glanced at me. "You told him."

"Had to. Can't ask for protection without explaining why someone's trying to kill me."

"How'd he take it?"

I laughed. Bitter sound. "About how you'd expect. Called me a rat. Almost had Brick and the others beat me to death right there."

"But they didn't."

"No. Danny killed a pregnant woman. That bought me a conversation instead of a beating." I stopped walking, looked at Books. "But it doesn't buy me protection. Werner wants me all in. Full Brotherhood. Take their ink, take their oath, kill on command."

Books was quiet for a moment. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do."

I stopped walking. Looked at him. "What?"

"You know what you're going to do, Thor. You've already decided. You just don't want to admit it because it scares you." He met my eyes steadily. Patient. "You're going to say no. Because saying yes would violate your principles. And you'd rather die keeping your soul than live having sold it."

He was right. I hated that he was right, but he was.

"Then what?" I asked. "They're coming. Everyone knows I'm a snitch now—Werner made sure the Brotherhood heard. If word spreads and I don't have protection? I'm dead by the weekend."

"Everyone knows you snitched on a child-killer," Books corrected. "That's different. People might not like it, but they understand it. The Brotherhood's still protecting you right now, even after your confession. That tells you something."

"Yeah. That I'm valuable. And the second I'm not, I'm done. They're coming. I can't beat them alone."

"So, find another way. You always do." Books started walking again. I followed. "You've got three days before Vinnie gets back to you with information. Three days to figure out who this practitioner is, what they do, how they think. Use that time. Study. Prepare. Get creative."

"And if creative isn't enough?"

"Then you stack the deck. Find allies that aren't the Brotherhood. Resources that don't cost your principles. You beat Danny by being smarter, not stronger. Do the same thing here."

"Danny wasn't a practitioner."

"No. But the principle's the same." Books stopped at the yard's northeast corner, where the fence met the wall. Cold here, wind whipping across the concrete. "You're a chaos magician, Thor. That means you use whatever works. Well. What works isn't Werner's way. Find yours."

I stood there thinking. Three days until Vinnie reported back. Four days until Werner needed an answer. And somewhere out there, eighty miles away, a practitioner I'd never met was planning my death.

Find another way.

Yeah. Okay.

I'd figure it out.

I always did.