Page 15 of Tattooed Heart

A wiry inmate with a shaved head launches himself across a table, slamming into a broad-shouldered guy who doesn’t even have time to stand. A fist connects with flesh. A tray flies, scattering food across the floor like shrapnel. Chairs topple. Men shout.

Then all hell breaks loose.

More inmates jump in. Some are pulled apart, others goad it on. It’s chaos, or at least it looks that way. But I've seen too much to believe in coincidence. This is a distraction.

And just like clockwork, the real threat moves through the smoke.

He comes from the side, lean and pale. A teardrop tattoo on one eye and knuckles already cracked from too many fights. He doesn’t charge. That would draw attention. No, he stalks like a fucking hyena looking for something soft to rip into.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of standing. Instead, I watch him approach through hooded eyes, measuring his stride and noting the slight favor to his left leg. It might be a weak knee or an old injury. Either way, it's a vulnerability.

He closes the distance, one hand slipping something small and silver from his waistband. A shiv. Homemade and crude but effective.

I rise when he’s three steps away, my body uncoiling with the controlled power of a viper's strike.

His mouth twists into a grin. “Popov,” he sneers. “Morozov sends his regards.”

“Then he should've sent someone better.”

He lunges. But I’m already moving.

The bench screeches across the floor as I kick it behind me, forcing him to shift his footing. That moment of imbalance cost him. My fist slams into his jaw twice before he registers the hit. The knuckles connecting with bone echo in my ears, familiar as a lullaby.

His arm swings wide with the blade, but I duck low and drive my shoulder into his ribs, lifting and slamming him backward onto the table. The metal groans under the sudden impact of his weight.

He gasps, the air rushing from his lungs. I grab his wrist mid-swing, twisting until bone grinds against bone, feeling the tendons strain beneath my grip. This is the kind of pressure that promises broken fingers and a useless hand if pushed just a fraction of a second further.

The blade clatters to the floor. And that's when the second one comes.

The bastard was waiting, hidden by the noise, the bodies, and the guards, who were too slow to respond. Too busy handling the fight across the room to notice the real danger unfolding in the corner.

He rushes me from behind. I barely turn in time, but I didn’t have to.

Mikhail moves like a shadow through fire. He appears out of nowhere, his forearm catching the second attacker mid-charge, driving him back with a grunt of pain. Then his elbow comes down hard across the man's temple, and he crumples.

It is fast, efficient, and brutal. The type of violence that doesn’t waste movement or hesitate with mercy.

“Two already?” Mikhail quips, grabbing the man's collar sprawled across the table and tossing him off. “You're popular.”

I don’t smile. But something in my chest settles. An alliance tested and proven in the heat of battle. Worth more than any oath or promise.

A whistle shrieks from the guard tower, piercing the din of shouting and fighting.

“On the floor! On the fucking floor!”

Rifles point down from the balcony. The guards finally noticed. Orders are barked, and sirens echo. Boots on the metal staircases thud as reinforcements descend.

“Go down,” Mikhail urges. “Let them do the rest.”

I kneel, putting my hands behind my head.

My pulse thunders, but I keep my breathing steady. The adrenaline still courses through my system, but I control it, channel it, and use it to sharpen my senses rather than cloud my judgment.

It isn’t about winning the fight but about surviving the next hour, the next day, and the next week until I can find a way back to Sandy and everything that matters.

Boots thunder toward us. The first guard shoves me hard, checking for weapons. His hands are rough against my sides, back, and legs. The second slams the butt of his rifle into the ribs of the guy who came at me. Another is already cuffing Mikhail.

“What the fuck happened here?” the officer snaps, his eyes wild with that particular blend of fear and authority that makes prison guards dangerous.