Thursday morning. Books was reading at the small table we shared when I woke up. He glanced up, nodded once, and went back to his philosophy. Comfortable silence. The kind you only get with someone who knows you well enough not to ask stupid questions.

I had questions, though. Lots of them.

Who was Danny's practitioner? Not just their name—I'd know that soon enough when Vinnie confirmed. But who were they really? What kind of magic did they practice? Where had they learned? What were their weaknesses?

Kraus's grimoire had taught me chaos magic. Use whatever works, mix traditions freely, adapt and improvise. But Kraus had also taught me something else: Know your enemy. Understand how they think. Every practitioner has patterns. Favorite techniques. Blind spots.

Find the pattern. Exploit the blind spot.

I needed to research.

The library was my best bet. Books worked there, had access to everything the prison owned. Which wasn't much, but it was something. I waited until afternoon rec time, then headed down to 4-Beta.

The library was small. Two rooms, maybe thirty feet total, lined with metal shelves. Everything from legal references to donated paperbacks. Patricia Mills had a reading corner here sometimes, taking her lunch break with romance novels. Today it was empty except for Books, who was reshelving returns.

"Need something?" he asked.

"Everything you've got on European folk magic. Eastern traditions specifically. Baltic region, Russian, Estonian."

Books raised an eyebrow. "Based on the attack?"

"The way they broke through my wards—it felt... structured. Traditional. Not chaos magic. Someone who learned from a specific system." I paused. "Danny's from the violent offenders facility. Eighty miles east. Estonian community out that way. Maybe that's a connection."

"We don't have much," Books said. "And nothing specific to Baltic magic. But we've got some general folklore collections, a world religions encyclopedia, maybe something useful in the mythology section."

He pulled four books. A survey of European folk practices, an encyclopedia of world mythology, a comparative religion textbook, and a battered anthology of fairy tales and folk beliefs. Not perfect. Not detailed. But something.

I took them back to my cell and started digging.

The information was scattered. A paragraph here about Estonian ancestor veneration. A footnote about Baltic protective charms. A mention of traditional healers called nõid in a chapter on folk medicine. I had to piece it together like a puzzle...

Baltic magic was different from chaos magic. More structured. The folklore texts described traditions going back centuries—shamanic practices that had mixed with Christianity over time, picking up pagan holdovers and regional superstitions along the way.

They used talismans carved from natural materials. Healing work with herbs and chants. Called on ancestors for power and guidance. Some practitioners could work weather magic, controlling storms and winds. The sympathetic magic part was familiar—curses using personal items, counter-curses to break them. Standard stuff I'd seen in Kraus's grimoire.

But then there was binding magic.

That made my skin crawl. Enslaving another person's will. Forcing obedience. Exactly what my first principle forbade. But the texts described it in detail anyway. How it worked. What it required. The cost.

You needed three things to bind someone: a personal item—hair, blood, nail clippings, something with their essence. A ritual focus to represent them—carved figure, wax doll, their name written and bound. And time. Lots of time. Sustained attention over days or weeks.

The binding didn't happen instantly. It was a slow process. Wearing down resistance. Planting suggestions. Rewriting someone's desires until they wanted what you wanted. Until they couldn't tell the difference between their will and yours.

Slavery disguised as choice.

If the practitioner coming after me specialized in this...

I read everything twice. Took mental notes. Started to understand what I might be facing. What techniques they'd favor. What vulnerabilities they might have.

Binding magic required time. Proximity helped but wasn't necessary—distance binding was possible with strong enough will. The target needed to be weakened first. Wards broken down. Defenses compromised. Then the real work could begin.

That attack three nights ago. That wasn't supposed to kill me. It was supposed to soften me up. Break my wards. Make me vulnerable.

They were setting up for the binding.

Whoever Danny hired wanted to enslave me. Turn me into his puppet. Make me destroy myself on Danny's command, probably. Poetic justice for the snitch who'd cost Danny his freedom.

Fuck that.

I kept reading. There had to be a counter. Some way to defend against binding magic. The folklore texts mentioned protective practices—carrying salt, wearing iron, and reciting prayers. But those were folk remedies. Superstition. Would they work against a professional practitioner?

Maybe. If I believed hard enough. That was chaos magic's secret weapon. Belief powered everything. If I truly believed salt would protect me, it would. At least a little.

But I needed more than a little.

The survey of European folk practices had a section on traditional practitioners—nõid in Estonian, wise women and cunning men who served their communities. Healers, midwives, curse-breakers. But also, darker figures. Those who bound spirits, enslaved will, killed from a distance.

The text mentioned one case study. An Estonian immigrant to Canada in the early 2000s, investigated by Toronto police for a series of ritualistic murders. Never convicted—not enough evidence. But the investigating detective's notes (included in the appendix) described finding ritual implements, binding materials, evidence of traditional Estonian magic practices.

The case went cold when the suspect was arrested on unrelated organized crime charges.

I stared at the page. Organized crime. Estonian. Early 2000s. Now in a Canadian prison.

Was this them? Was this Danny's practitioner?

I needed that name. Now.

Friday dragged. Every hour felt like three. I couldn't focus on anything. Paced the cell until Books told me to sit down before I wore a hole in the floor. Read the same page of Kraus's grimoire five times without absorbing a word.

Werner's deadline was tonight. Vinnie's information was... sometime today? Maybe?

I was going to crawl out of my skin.

Lunch came. Then yard time—I avoided the weight pile, didn't talk to Werner, just walked laps like a madman. Then dinner. Then evening rec.

Finally, during rec period, a kite arrived. Passed hand to hand through the tier, cell to cell, until it reached 47. Small piece of paper, folded tight, writing on the inside in Vinnie's neat script.

I unfolded it with shaking hands.

Emil Kask. Estonian. 58 years old. Life sentence, violent offenders facility, 15 years in. Three counts first-degree murder (2001-2003). Victims: bookkeeper, loan shark, rival enforcer. All three found in ritualistic arrangements—specific symbols, bound with rope in patterns, details sealed by court order but investigating detectives noted "occult elements." Toronto Police consulted cultural experts, got nowhere. Kask never talked. Worked for Estonian/Russian organized crime before arrest. No gang affiliation inside—keeps to himself, respected/feared by other inmates. Danny's been sending commissary credits for two months. Reason unknown.

Whatever Kask did for the Tallinn mob, it wasn't normal enforcement work. Be very careful with this one, kid.

- V

I read it three times. Burned the paper in the toilet, flushed the ashes. Sat on my bunk and processed.

Emil Kask.

Ritualistic murders. Occult elements. Victims bound in patterns with specific symbols. The Toronto Police had consulted cultural experts—probably trying to understand what the fuck they were looking at. Probably got told it was Estonian folk magic, traditional binding practices, shit that didn't make sense to modern cops.

But it made sense to me.

The attack on my wards three nights ago. The surgical precision. The way it felt... structured. Traditional. Someone who'd learned from a specific system, not chaos magic cobbled together from library books.

Binding specialist. The anthropology text had described it. Baltic folk magic traditions. Enslaving will. Victims bound—literally and magically—before being killed.

Kask wasn't just a mob enforcer. He was a practitioner. Trained, experienced, professional. Forty-plus years of practice if he'd learned young. Fifteen years in a violent offenders facility with nothing to do but refine his technique.

And Danny had been sending him commissary credits for two months.

Two months of payment for what? A hit? A favor? Testing the new fish at CNCC who'd snitched on Danny's murder charge?

The message came back to me: The Old Man sends his regards.

Not a death threat. A notice. Professional courtesy. "I'm coming for you, and I want you to know it."

Kask wasn't doing this for revenge. Wasn't doing it for money, really—commissary credits were pocket change to someone with his reputation.

He was doing it because it was interesting.

I was a puzzle. An experiment. Entertainment for a lifer with decades left and nothing better to do than test himself against CNCC's supposed witch.

Somehow that was worse than hatred. At least hatred was personal. This was... clinical. Detached. Professional.

Kask didn't hate me. He didn't care about me at all. I was just interesting.

"You get what you needed?" Books asked from his bunk.

"Yeah." My voice sounded hollow. "His name. Background. Magic style."

"And?"

"And I'm completely outmatched. Forty-plus years of practice on me. Traditional training from childhood. Professional killer. Multiple victims. No ethics. Binding specialist, just like the folklore texts described."

"So, you can't beat him with power."

"No."

"Then beat him with creativity." Books set his book aside. "What does he expect you to do?"

"Run. Hide. Panic. Make mistakes."

"Then don't do those things. Do something he doesn't expect. Something chaotic. That's your advantage, Thor. You're chaos. He's tradition. Traditional practitioners think in patterns. Follow rules. You don't have to."

I thought about that. Emil Kask had trained with his grandmother. Learned Estonian folk magic, binding rituals, traditional practices. He'd been doing it for forty-plus years. Forty years of patterns. Habits. Expected responses.

Chaos magic didn't have patterns. That was the point. Use whatever works. Mix traditions freely. Adapt. Improvise.

Kask would expect me to defend. Build stronger wards. Hide behind protection.

What if I attacked instead?

"I need to know more," I said. "His attack patterns. His techniques. Can't fight blind."

"Then make him show you."

"What?"

Books smiled. Small, dangerous. "Bait him. Set a trap. Let him attack again, but this time you're ready. Recording everything with your trigger sigil. Learn his style. Then counter it."

It was risky. Stupid, even. Deliberately provoking an attack from someone who'd already nearly killed me.

But it was also exactly the kind of chaotic, unpredictable thing Kask wouldn't expect.

"Yeah," I said slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

"When?"

"Tonight. I'll drop my wards. Make myself vulnerable. See if he takes the bait."

Books looked concerned. "And if he does more than probe? If he goes for the kill?"

"Then I've got the blood ward as final defense. And you to wake me if things go sideways." I met his eyes. "You in?"

He sighed. "You're going to get yourself killed one of these days."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a yes." He shook his head. "One of these days, Thor. I swear."

I grinned. Felt good to have a plan. Even a dangerous, possibly fatal plan.

Better than waiting to die.

Werner found me at dinner. Didn't say anything. Just looked at me across the chow hall, then nodded toward the yard doors. Count was at six. We had thirty minutes before lockdown.

I followed him outside.

The yard was emptying out. Cold February evening, guys heading back to their tiers for count. Werner walked to the weight pile, sat on the bench. Waited for me to join him.

"Friday," he said. "My deadline."

"I know."

"So, what's it gonna be, Thor? You all in, or you on your own?"

I'd known this moment was coming. Had three days to think about it. Three days to weigh my principles against survival. Books had been right—I'd already decided. Just hadn't wanted to admit it.

"I won't join," I said. "I won't take your ink. Won't take your oath. Won't kill on command."

Werner nodded slowly. Like he'd expected it but was disappointed anyway. "You understand what that means?"

"Yeah."

"Protection's withdrawn. Effective immediately. You're not Brotherhood-affiliated anymore. Not under our umbrella. Anyone comes at you, that's your problem."

"I know."

"And Thor?" He stood up. "Word's gonna spread. About you snitching. I kept it quiet today—just the guys at the weight pile heard. But I can't control that forever. Someone's gonna talk. And when the tier finds out you dropped a dime on Danny Keyes..." He shook his head. "You won't last a week."

My mouth was dry. "You gonna be the one spreading it?"

"Me? Nah. I don't need to." Werner's smile was cold. "You made your choice. You get to live with the consequences. Or die with them. Either way, not my problem anymore."

He started walking toward the doors. Stopped. Looked back.

"For what it's worth? I get it. You got principles. Lines you won't cross. Most guys lose that in here." He paused. "But principles don't keep you alive, kid. Power does. Remember that when someone comes for you."

Then he was gone.

I stood there in the empty yard, wind cutting through my jacket, and felt the weight of what I'd just done. No Brotherhood protection. My secret spreading. A professional practitioner coming to kill me.

I'd chosen to die free rather than live as their weapon.

Books would say that was the right choice.

Didn't make it feel any less like suicide.

Count came at six. I was back in Cell 47 when they called it. Books looked at me, question in his eyes. I just shook my head.

"Werner?"

"It's done. I said no."

Books closed his book. "How'd he take it?"

"About like you'd expect. Protection's withdrawn. He's not spreading the snitch thing actively, but he's not stopping it either. Says I won't last a week once word gets out."

"He's probably right."

"Yeah." I sat on my bunk. Felt exhausted. Defeated. "So now I've got no protection, everyone's gonna know I'm a rat, and a professional practitioner is coming to enslave me. Great fucking week."

"You made the right choice."

"Doesn't feel like it."

"It never does." Books set his book aside. "The right choice is usually the hard one. That's how you know it's right."

I wanted to believe that. Wanted to think that choosing principles over survival meant something. But right now, all it meant was I was going to die alone.

"What's your plan?" Books asked.

"Same as before. Drop the wards tonight. Bait Kask. Get attack data from the trigger sigil. Learn how he fights."

"And then what?"

"Then I figure out how to beat him." I met Books's eyes. "Because if I don't, I'm dead anyway. At least this way I go down fighting."

Books nodded. "Need me to watch your back?"

"Yeah. If the blood ward breaks, wake me up. Fast."

"I will."

We sat there in silence until lights out at eleven. Then I lay on my bunk, breathing steady, and prepared to do the stupidest, most desperate thing I'd done since arriving at CNCC.

Deliberately make myself vulnerable to a professional killer.

No Brotherhood protection. No backup plan. No safety net.

Just me, my blood ward, and Books's promise to wake me if things went sideways.

By midnight, the tier was quiet. Just the usual sounds—men snoring, someone crying three cells down, the occasional guard walking past.

I lay on my bunk, breathing steady, and began.

The trigger sigil was ready. Carved into the underside of my bunk, activated with a drop of blood earlier tonight. It would record everything—magical signatures, attack patterns, and the shape of Kask's will made manifest.

Now I just had to give him a target.

And pray the blood ward held.

Because if it didn't? No Brotherhood to avenge me. No protection to fall back on. Just Thor O'Reilly, snitch, dying alone in his cell while a professional practitioner tore him apart from eighty miles away.

I reached out mentally to my wards. The three layers I'd rebuilt after his first attack. Deflection. Confusion. Blood ward.

And I dropped the first two.

Not completely. That would be too obvious, too suspicious. Instead, I let them thin. Weakened them deliberately. Made them look like they were failing naturally, eroding under time and use. An easy target.

Bait.

Then I waited.

Nothing happened for an hour. I lay there in the dark, heart pounding, wondering if he'd even notice. If he was paying attention. If—

The pressure started.

Same as before. That heavy feeling in the air, like a thunderstorm building. The sense of something pushing against my wards. Testing. Probing.

The weakened deflection layer crumbled almost immediately.

The confusion ward lasted maybe thirty seconds.

Then Kask hit the blood ward.

This time, I was ready. I felt every detail of the assault. The magical signature—cold, precise, methodical. Like surgery. He wasn't trying to smash through. He was studying it. Understanding its structure. Looking for weaknesses.

The trigger sigil recorded everything. Every probe. Every shift in technique. The way Kask's will shaped itself, the particular flavor of his magic. Traditional Estonian binding practices, exactly like the texts described. But refined. Perfected. Forty years of experience showing in every movement.

He was good. Terrifyingly good.

But now I knew how he fought.

The assault lasted twenty minutes. Then, like before, it stopped. The pressure vanished. The heavy air cleared.

I lay there breathing hard, nose bleeding slightly—not from the ward breaking, but from the strain of maintaining the blood ward under sustained attack while simultaneously running the trigger sigil.

But it had worked.

I had data. Patterns. Information.

And no one left to help me use it.

"Thor?" Books's voice from the upper bunk, quiet and concerned.

"I'm okay." My voice was rough. "Got what I needed."

"Good. Sleep. We'll analyze it tomorrow."

Tomorrow. When word would start spreading that I'd snitched. When the Brotherhood's protection would be officially gone. When everyone would know I was vulnerable.

When Kask would know I was alone.

I wiped the blood from my nose. Closed my eyes. Felt the trigger sigil's recording settling into my memory, ready to be examined.

And now I had no one watching my back except a lifer with a philosophy degree and a conscience that wouldn't let me compromise.

I'd chosen my principles over survival.

Now I had to figure out how to survive anyway.