Violence City: Blood, Cash and Gangs

A car rolled at a slow pace through the scorching Arizona desert. The thick, suffocating air made you sweat without even trying.

On the dashboard, a jazz station played softly, creating a bizarre contrast with the infernal heat outside. In the backseat, hands bound, sat Prince. The pale, blonde-haired kid kept his head leaned against the window, staring out at the landscape with a blank, deadpan look—like someone who had simply accepted his fate. An ear-splitting silence had ruled inside the vehicle since the trip began.

Behind the wheel, a guard tapped his fingers to the beat of the music. Beneath his thick mustache, he wore a smug smirk before finally breaking the silence:

— You’re fucked, kid. — He paused, letting the provocation hang in the air. — Let’s see if you can last even one night. — He let out a short, mocking laugh.

In the backseat, Prince just curled his lips into a faint smile, not giving a shit about the threat. Through the rearview mirror, the driver noticed the kid’s total lack of reaction.

Pissed off by the indifference, the man’s smirk turned feral:

— Hell, maybe you’ll even get abused. They love fresh meat. — Once again, Prince didn’t even blink. The man’s irritation skyrocketed. — You know, maybe they’ll even kil...

— Stop talking, — Prince interrupted, his voice calm and ice-cold.

The guard was about to blow a fuse, but he took a deep breath, slammed on the gas, and decided to drop it.

Minutes later, the vehicle pulled up in Violence City’s massive courtyard. The structure was colossal: sky-high walls and a pitch-black facade that stood out against the vastness of the desert. The weathered, beaten-down walls showed that this place had been standing way longer than anyone could imagine.

Other cars were pulling up at the same time, unloading more guards and a batch of students who looked infinitely more dangerous than normal.

Four of these new arrivals, including Prince, were led into the Screening Room. They lined the inmates up along a red stripe painted on the floor. Two girls stared at Prince and a skinny kid in the corner, their faces dripping with suspicion and hesitation.

The door swung open and a female guard walked to the center of the room, flanked by four subordinates carrying large red boxes. She glared at the group with pure disgust and started pacing back and forth.

— Listen up, you pieces of shit! — she shouted. — This is rock bottom, fucking get it?! This ain't some private university and there’s no coddling here for anybody! — She stopped dead in her tracks, planting her feet firmly on the floor. — In here, we’re gonna treat you like garbage until you realize that you actually are garbage!

She snapped her fingers. Instantly, the guards stepped forward, handing a box to each inmate.

The woman resumed her pacing.

— Inside that box are your personal items: a towel, a pillow, a toothbrush, a uniform, and money.

The rookies carefully checked out the contents. The skinny kid pulled out a stack of bills, but what caught his eye was the color of the paper: a deep, disturbing blood-red. He raised his hand, and the guard allowed him to speak with a sharp nod.

— Excuse me... what are these bills?

The woman sighed, completely out of patience:

— It’s the currency around here: Bloods. That’s what you use to buy everything: drugs, bitches, and food. Use that shit wisely, because you only get a hundred Bloods a month.

While the girls stared at the cheap, shady-looking items, Prince pulled his uniform out of the box. The clothes were red with dark purple lettering, and surprisingly, the fabric felt high quality.

Two loud claps from the guard echoed through the room, making almost everyone jump—except Prince.

— Move it, fucking hurry! Get dressed! I don’t have all fucking day!

The girls exchanged panicked looks, then glanced over at Prince and the kid in the corner.

— In here...? Right here? — one of them asked.

The guard smirked and took two steps forward.

— Yeah, bitch, right here. Nobody’s gonna care about that flat board you got going on down there, don't worry about it.

Seeing the girl’s utter disbelief, the woman barked once more:

— Come on, change your fucking clothes already! There are guards waiting for you!

Scrambling, the students started changing.

A few minutes later, Prince was being escorted down a narrow hallway by a beefy guard. The kid still showed zero emotion, which seemed to unnerve even his escort.

Along the sides, veterans crowded against the bars to watch the new guy pass by. They hurled insults, threats, and dirty shouts. The girls threw out flirtatious, provocative comments. Prince didn't even bat an eye.

The guard stopped in front of one of the cell doors and announced in a robotic voice:

— Inmate Prince, number 1345. Cell 130, top bunk. — He shoved the kid inside and kept walking.

Inside, two veterans froze the moment the number was called. One was dark-skinned, wearing a tank top with cornrows. The other sat on the top bunk, taking a hit from a joint.

The two exchanged looks, then turned their eyes toward the newcomer. In response, Prince kept a look of pure boredom on his face as he took a few steps into the room.

Behind him, the heavy iron door slammed shut with a deafening thud.