Page 15 of From Best To Bested

He had the choice to keep his head down in Marlow Penitentiary or hold his head high and fight off anyone who dared.

None of his choices felt like choices. And now he had no one. No friends. No allies. No family.

“You can leave now,” Ezra said, nodding to the door. “This bunk is reserved for my friend.”

That was it? Roman had expected Ezra to fight him on it. To demand he follow through. Part of him secretly hoped for Ezra to make the push, take the option out of Roman’s hand so he could preserve some semblance of his shredded dignity. If he didn’t have a choice, really truly ended up forced into serving Ezra, Roman believed he could follow through. But this willful act of making Roman submit, to smile as he belittled himself, infuriated Roman.

“Goodbye.” Ezra gave a dismissive wave. “I don’t room with folks too good for my time.”

Roman froze, knees locked and feet glued to the floor. Every part of him screamed not to go through with the deal he’d made, the foolish choice he’d agreed to, but another part whispered the harsh reality that faced him once he walked out of this cell, out of the champion’s suite for good. Roman knew he wasn’t the only one who would suffer if he stepped through that door. Levi depended on Roman, too. Levi had suffered at the hands of Ezra’s taunts and looming predators ready to strike. Still, Roman couldn’t will himself to submit, to surrender. He wasn’t built for it.

Unable or unwilling to accept Ezra’s choice, Roman bolted from the room. He barreled through the hallway, ignoring the jokes of other inmates, the bolstering, and he tried to think of what the warden would do to him.

Roman braced himself for landing in some slummy cellblock or roomed with predators so vicious he’d never get a full night’ssleep again, but he took a deep breath and walked into the waiting area outside the warden’s office.

He didn’t speak to Roman, didn’t see him, merely smiled from behind the glass panel of his door when news of Roman’s rejection reached his ears. Guards escorted Roman to a place he’d never seen. Not that he’d been permitted in all the cellblocks, but they mostly looked alike. Not this place.

A guard pushed him inside a damp, stone room the size of a closet with a bucket that took up a quarter of his living space. There was no bed here. There was nothing.

Roman had been tossed in solitary twice for getting mouthy. This wasn’t the same. Solitary had a toilet, a bed, padded walls, but this place…. This place was something he’d only heard rumors about.

He sank to the floor, terror weighing him down as he realized he’d die down here in The Pit.

Chapter Six

Every day of isolation gnawed at Roman. He couldn’t see the time of day, and even for the ten minutes of freedom they came to offer when dragging him out for a quick shower, he never saw a window. He couldn’t even be certain it was ten minutes a day. He wanted to believe that. He wanted to hope The Pit held some type of a schedule, a routine, but the longer he spent here with irregular meals in the form of cafeteria scraps, the more it dawned on him how forgotten he’d become.

After what felt infinitely long, a guard came to retrieve him for his ten minutes of freedom. He jolted up, wanting to make use of every ticking second, convinced he might be able to squeeze in a long enough shower for the water to actually run warm. But when the guard pulled him by the hair and shoved a hood over his face, then slapped cuffs over his hands, Roman panicked.

“Where are we going?” Roman asked, slowing his pace only for a baton to hit the back of his calves and force his next steps. “Where are you taking me?”

No one answered. No one cared to acknowledge Roman.

His heart pounded in his chest, ready to burst any second. This was it. This was his march to death. The warden had finally taken his revenge and decided to walk Roman to a silent end.

The hood over his head had eye holes, which perplexed Roman. When he finally reached a well-lit place, Roman could almost make out the setting of a makeshift arena. It wasn’t anything like the arena he was used to, but there was still a balcony and a cheering crowd.

Roman rubbed his raw wrists from the cuffs slapped on far too tightly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big howl for the Lone Wolf!” Warden Sadler announced.

Every rumor Roman had ever heard jigsawed in his thoughts as he took in the loud cheers and long howls of the audience.

The lights were too bright, and the filtered eye holes made it difficult to see much of anything.

The Lone Wolf was the champion of The Pit, or so Roman had heard whispers of. An undefeated feral beast of a man who cannibalized so many people the state prayed he’d disappear from the face of the earth, and so the warden, being benevolent and adventitious, created The Pit and sent inmates to face off against the beastly man. The stakes were high, but the rewards were great.

Roman saw through the smokescreen of lies wrapped around truths. Perhaps the Lone Wolf was a real inmate at one point; perhaps he was even a deranged cannibal. But he wasn’t an undefeated mythical monster of a man. Roman had been given the new title of Lone Wolf, likely replacing the former inmate who died from a fatal injury or in his tiny stone cell from deprivation and isolation.

The warden had won. He’d watched Roman falter and sprung a fate so cruel he’d never crawl his way out again. Roman would wear this mask until he died, nameless and faceless to the authority above. He’d gain no fame, no chance of salvation, no freedom with victories. Roman would be forgotten here in the darkness of The Pit.

When the fight began, no one made an announcement. Roman simply winced at the sharp cut of a blade. A shiv that nearly dug into his forearm. He turned, dodging a second swipe, and nearly fell into the trap of two other men. Here he stood, handcuffed and surrounded by three men, each armed and ready to end his life with an audience cheering for his execution.

“Kill the wolf! Kill the wolf! Kill the wolf!”

How he survived the fight, he didn’t know. It all blurred into a bloody, sticky mess. He had lots of shallow cuts and bruises covering his body, but he panted heavy and feral and victorious for tonight. Roman didn’t know if he’d killed the men he fought or simply injured them beyond recovery. He clenched his fists. He didn’t care.

Everything whirled from then on. Countless hours in his cell. Cheering crowds. Booing crowds. Angry armed inmates. Blood. Rage. Pain. Sleepless nights on cold stone floors. Hunger pangs that stretched on infinitely.

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