The Phoenix Project E-Book

D.M. Cain

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In a world that has descended into chaos, Raven Kennedy becomes a part of the Phoenix Project. Across the country, prison inmates fight to the death while the nation cheers them on. 

While struggling with his past, Raven faces the prison's most ruthless killing machines. With the real war raging inside him, Raven fights for redemption.

But can he survive long enough to unravel the anger and regret that shackle him - and find the forgiveness he seeks?

Leseprobe

The Phoenix Project

D.M. Cain

Copyright (C) 2015 D.M. Cain

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Amalia Chitulescu Edited by Briana Lambert Proofread by Sophie Thomas

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Matthew Sharp, Mathew Gregory, Stewart Bint, David Spell, Pardip Basra and Lisa Veldkamp for your tireless support and encouragement.

To my wonderful husband Matt and my son Deacon. Your support and encouragement are what inspired me to get this book written. You have changed my life in so many ways, and without you, none of this would have been possible.

Chapter One

Present day

Cold, dark terror trickled through Raven Kennedy's veins, freezing him on the spot. There was a thunderous drumbeat echoing around his skull and it took him a while to realise it was the relentless, agitated pounding of his own heart.

As he became more nervous, more afraid of his looming fate, his breath came quickly, sticking in his throat and choking him. A cough threatened to burst forth from his lips, but he held it in, afraid it would bring with it the contents of his stomach—the bland, tasteless meal he had been given in his cell.

It was the worst possible time to feel weak, but Raven felt like he could hardly lift his arms, his exhaustion was so great. He hadn't slept a wink last night. How could he with today hovering over him?

The time for his first fight had come around quickly. He'd hardly been given time to think about it at all. Raven looked down at his hands and was not surprised to see they were shaking.

His opponent's name was Wilson. Raven knew nothing else about him. He'd never spoken to him, had never even met him. Had they passed one another in the dining hall and never even looked up? If he had spoken to him would that make what he was about to do any easier?

He heard heavy footsteps in the corridor and his heart jumped into his throat. They were coming for him. His eyes remained fixed on his shaking hands as the mechanical doors to his prison cell buzzed and swung open.

“Let's go.” The order was sharp and direct.

Raven stood to face the guards, crazy thoughts flashing through his mind. He could attack both guards, knock them out and escape. But then what would he do? There were guards everywhere, security gates, locked doors. It was impossible to escape. He felt a surge of panic flood his mind. His chest felt tight and he sucked in irregular breaths. He steadied himself, took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Come on. Let's go,” one of the guards commanded again.

He ignored them. He had to calm himself down before he got in the ring or he'd be dead within seconds. Keep yourself together. He breathed out and with it, he felt some of his panic dissolve. When he opened his eyes, he was ready to go.

He was marched towards the arena, but instead of entering through the main doors, where the other prisoners were herded like cattle to watch the fights, he was led through a side door leading to a changing room. They sat him down, told him to get ready and left him alone with his fear.

Anxieties swirled in his head. Was this it? Was this moment when he would die? How could he bring himself to kill another, just so that he could live? What made his life more valuable than Wilson's?

He waited. It seemed like hours before the commentator's brash voice echoed around the theatre.

“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we have quite a treat! He won two spectacular fights in a row. Can tonight be his third? Please welcome the undefeated Wilson!” Deafening whoops and cheers echoed around the arena.

“And facing him tonight”—Raven's heart leapt—“in his Salverford debut, fighting for his honour, his dignity and his life, it's Raven!”

Raven knew he had no choice but to go into the ring. He had been in the amphitheatre many times before. Like the other prisoners, he had been dragged there and forced to watch every time two inmates battered each other to death. But this was different. When he stepped out on the walkway, he saw Salverford in a completely different light. Bloodthirsty crowds, calling for his death, TV cameras pointing into his face as millions of people around the world watched and waited to see his gruesome fate.

He reluctantly made his way along the raised pathway, between the crowds of prisoners, and shakily made his way to the ring. As he passed, he looked down at the upturned faces of his fellow prisoners watching him. They were shouting, cheering, singing, dancing. From high up they looked small, insignificant. Yet somehow they were the most frightening thing he'd ever seen. Tiny creatures waiting to devour him. He shuddered as he walked through and kept his eyes on his destination—the ring where he would either be killed in cold blood, or stain his own hands with the blood of another.

As he approached and ducked through the ropes, he cast his eyes over his opponent. Wilson was taller than he was, with broad shoulders and the beginnings of a substantial gut. His light blue eyes may once have been gentle, but now they shone with a fierce determination to stay alive, at all costs. His large, coarse hands were already curled into fists and Raven could see his chest heaving up and down; in anticipation, excitement, fear—Raven couldn't tell.

Wilson cut an imposing figure, and Raven's terror stepped up a notch, threatening to overtake his mind and cloud all rational thought. Raven took a few deep breaths and forced himself to be calm. He ran another appraising eye over his opponent and tried to see the positives. Sure, Wilson was taller, but Raven was slim, athletic and fast. He could use that to his advantage, and maybe he could kill Wilson after all.

As soon as that positivity boosted his morale, Raven's conscience kicked in to drag him back down again. He thought about who Wilson was as a person. What were his hobbies? Had he ever been in love? What was his crime? Maybe he was innocent. But if he wasn't, if he was a murderer or a rapist, would that really make this any easier?

The bell rang, Raven's stomach lurched, and Wilson was upon him in an instant, throwing his body weight at Raven like a moving wall of flesh. Raven staggered under the man's weight and frantically wondered where to hit him. He threw a wild, but powerful punch at Wilson's neck and knocked him to the floor.

Wilson scrambled to his feet and rushed at Raven again. He slammed his fist hard into Raven's chest and the wind was knocked out of him. But as he was choking to get the air back into his lungs, Raven was surprised at how little it had hurt. It had taken his breath away because of the location of the blow, not the power behind it.

Raven saw panic in Wilson's eyes and felt a boost of confidence. I can win this. He pulled his fist back and, using as much strength as he could muster, slammed it into Wilson's jaw. The blow knocked Wilson off his feet and slung him to the floor, blinking the blur from his eyes. Raven stepped forward to kick Wilson whilst he was down, but something inside made him hesitate.

Wilson glared at him, anger flashing across his face as he leapt to his feet. He threw himself at Raven, fury raging in his eyes. He threw a fist and hit Raven hard in the face. Raven's lip burst under the impact, and shockwaves of pain shot across his face.

A small trickle of blood ran into his mouth and Raven wiped it away on the back of his hand, but the next punch came before he had time to refocus himself.

Raven tried to block it, but he wasn't quick enough and it slammed into his cheekbone. This one hurt a lot more. He staggered backwards with the agony, wincing as his nerves screamed, but he kept on his feet, knowing that falling to the floor could mean death.

Wilson had regained some of his confidence and there was a cocky smirk etched across his face. The crowd was wild, cheering and shouting for Wilson to win. The constant wall of noise ate away at Raven as he tried to ignore their thirst for his death. Raven was unknown. This was his first fight and nobody cheered for him.

Wilson tried a kick next, a sharp and precise strike aimed at Raven's knee. Raven saw it coming too late. He couldn't avoid it in time but pulled his leg up so the kick connected sharply with his calf instead of his knee. The impact was painful, and Raven knew that if he survived this he'd have a nasty bruise there, but he had saved his knee from being shattered at least.

Wilson's eyes flashed with rage when his kick missed and Raven saw his body tense as his anger reached dangerous heights. Wilson kicked again, higher this time, and his heel slammed brutally into Raven's stomach.

Raven doubled over in pain, choking and spluttering, the breath knocked from him. Wilson saw his opportunity and, whilst Raven was bent over, he curled his hand into a fist and punched him hard across the back of the head. Raven was knocked to the floor, his head and stomach throbbing with pain.

The next kick caught him in his ribs, and he felt a sickening crack as a lightning flash of agony shot through his body. One of his ribs had broken and it felt like a red hot knife had been thrust into his side.

Wilson wasted no time and stamped down hard on Raven's leg. Raven screamed with the agony. It felt as if his shin would explode. Every nerve sent shockwaves of stomach-clenching pain through his body. Get up, get up and fight. Raven staggered to his feet, holding his tender rib with his left hand. Raven limped towards Wilson, his bruised shin aching with every step.

Wilson was overconfident now, grinning at the crowd and already counting his victory. Raven saw the pride in his eyes and in the way his body relaxed, unprepared for another attack. Raven took advantage and when he limped up to him, Wilson didn't have his defences ready.

Raven drew his fist back and hit Wilson full force in the face. He felt Wilson's nose crack with the impact, and was immediately struck by revulsion. He fought back the horror that surged in his stomach and threatened to empty the contents of his stomach right here in the ring.

Wilson's face screwed up in pain and he held his bloody nose.

Raven prepared to strike Wilson again, but as he did, he saw a flash of fear in Wilson's brown eyes. Raven's fist hovered in mid-air as he looked into the eyes of his opponent; eyes that shifted subtly to spheres of smoky grey. Raven blinked. It couldn't be…Just a trick of the light. Wilson's short brown hair seemed to extend and blow around his face to frame delicate feminine features. The mouth, nose, lips of her.

Raven dropped his hands to his sides and staggered backwards. The crowd erupted into loud heckling and he was met by furious, impatient glares. Raven knew this had to end soon. They couldn't keep on like this forever, it would only prolong the inevitable. One of them would walk out and one would leave in a body bag. Which was which depended on Raven pulling himself together.

He gritted his teeth and launched himself into the fight, straining to ignore his injuries, punching and kicking Wilson any place he could. The larger man was overpowered and fell to the floor. Wilson lay curled up in ball, as kick after kick rained down on him, and Raven forced himself to ignore the voice from his past that screamed in pain and begged him to stop.

Waves of agony flooded through Raven, his rib throbbing every time he moved. It was too much for him to bear, but he couldn't stop now. If he gave Wilson a second's leeway, it could turn the course of the fight again. So he continued kicking, as hard as he could, frantically praying that Wilson would die soon.

The strain was too great for Raven's injured body and he finally gave in, stepping back to catch his breath and give his aching rib a rest.

Wilson staggered to his feet, battered and bleeding. From the corner of his eye, Raven caught a flash of metal as a member of the audience threw something to Wilson. Raven barely had time to register it as a knife before Wilson was upon him like an animal, wielding the deadly weapon with renewed aggression. The crowd roared with delight.

Wilson jabbed the knife at Raven sporadically, with a manic glint in his eye. Ignoring the agony from his shattered rib, Raven dodged and ducked, his mind working furiously, trying to get the knife from Wilson.

The blade glinted dangerously through the air. Raven tried to dodge, but he wasn't quick enough and the knife caught the top of his arm, slicing through his shirt and into the flesh beneath. Raven clenched his jaw in pain as the blood soaked his clothes. Wilson paused for a moment, a huge grin on his face.

This was it. Wilson was sure he would win now and premature arrogance danced in his eyes. Raven saw his chance and kicked hard and high. His foot caught the hand holding the knife and it was flung to the far side of the ring.

Lashing out brutally, Raven kicked Wilson hard in the knee and stumbled frantically to the other side of the ring to fetch the knife.

Raven's hand closed around the handle and he spun around to face his opponent. Wilson was dragging himself painfully to his feet when he saw the shining weapon in Raven's hand. His face fell, and the confidence that had been written all over his features was replaced by stone cold horror. All around them, the crowd was delighted, cheering and shouting with excitement.

Raven felt a gut-wrenching despair as he closed in on Wilson. A great lump built up in his throat. All the fight was gone from Wilson now and, resigned to his grisly fate, he dropped to his knees, looking up at Raven with large, wet eyes. He looked so weak all of a sudden, when he had been a powerful enemy throughout the fight, and Raven saw this for what it really was: Not a fair fight, not a sport, but an execution. Raven wanted to throw the knife away, to tell Wilson he would spare him and everything would be okay, but it wasn't his choice. Behind him, the excited crowd bayed for Wilson's death, desperate with bloodlust, and beyond them, guards sullenly clutched their guns, waiting to see if Raven would dare disobey. He'd be killed himself if he spared Wilson.

Raven took a deep breath, gathered his courage together and moved towards Wilson. Pushing aside the fear and revulsion in the pit of his stomach, he pulled the knife back.

Wilson's eyes once more changed into beautiful globes of dark grey, tears falling onto his cheeks. Raven blinked away tears of his own that had begun to blur his vision, and with all his strength, thrust the knife between the man's ribs and into his chest.

Bile rose in Raven's stomach and he fought the urge to vomit. He tried desperately to ignore the way the knife grated against ribs as he pushed it deeper and felt it puncture Wilson's lungs.

Wilson's eyes widened for a moment, then flickered into oblivion before his body went limp.

Raven stared at the body in despair as he realised it felt the same as the last time he had killed, when all life had drained from smoke-coloured eyes.

Chapter Two

One year before Raven's incarceration at Salverford prison

It was September eighteenth and Raven slouched on his sofa, flicking through channels. Music. Celebrities. Breakfast shows. He reached down the side of the sofa to grab his beer and took a swig, gasping as he gulped down the cold liquid. It may have been early to start drinking, but he needed something to keep him going. He had hardly slept last night. He carried on flicking through channels until he settled on the news.

“—will be on high alert today. All local squads have been dispatched to the site, where people are already beginning to gather. The helicopter camera shows us that the whole area is surrounded by police, who are expecting a large turnout. If we look at the area directly in front of Parliament we can see people already taking their places in the protest area. Robert Sharp is at the scene to give us some more insight.”

The camera switched to a shot of an immaculately suited man standing in front of the Houses of Parliament, London. Behind him, people were preparing for a rally, standing and talking, making signs and preparing loudspeakers.

“Thank you, John. I'm at the site of the Anti-Phoenix Project rally. The police have stated that there hasn't been a protest of this size in fifteen years, since the bombing of Rome. Local authorities are hoping that it will be a peaceful protest and won't turn violent. Police have received reports of possible hostilities from pro-Phoenix groups, but at the moment the atmosphere is relaxed. Roads have been closed around the Westminster area and people are being advised not to journey into the centre of London unless absolutely necessary.”

Raven checked his watch before switching off the TV. It was time to go.

* * *

Even before he approached Westminster, he could hear the protest chants, the cheering, the megaphones. His stomach prickled with excitement and adrenaline bubbled inside him. As he turned the corner, the crowd came into view. Many people were gathered, but not as many as he'd expected and he felt a little disappointed. He strolled between the stalls and came to a stop before a woman shouting into a loudspeaker.

“The Phoenix Project is an affront to humanity! Civilisation is supposed to progress, not regress, and this is a clear step backwards. We cannot push our problems under the rug and kill the people we disagree with.”

The crowd clapped and cheered. Some waved their signs: “Vote NO to the Phoenix Project”; “End the gladiatorial slaughter”; “Respect life—vote NO to Phoenix.” Raven walked on and passed a table, plastered with leaflets and posters showing the bodies of young people lying dead on the floor of boxing rings. He looked away, feeling a lump in his throat. No matter how many times he saw the images, they still had a heavy impact on him, his heart churning with revulsion and sympathy.

He'd lied to his colleagues today and told them he had a doctor's appointment. Not only would they have denied him the time off, but they wouldn't have stopped harassing him about it either. They would have scorned and mocked him, told him stories of horrific crimes and the good work the Phoenix Project did in bringing justice to criminals. It made him sick. Sometimes it felt like he was the only one who saw the system for what it was—an uncivilised bloodbath.

He continued to walk around the large grassy area, thrilled with everything he saw. At the far side of the field, a man was barking his opinions to a small crowd.

“What kind of a nation is this, that we can allow such barbaric displays of our government's machismo? That's all this is. The government is afraid that it will look weak in the face of the superpowers. For the past decade, police, politicians, the public, everybody has cowered in the face of violent crime and terrorism. We should have solved this by trying to understand the criminal, the terrorist. And what did our government do? They became worse than them. Sure, they were frightened, we all were. We had come to a point where the threat of terrorism haunted us every day. People were too afraid to use public transport for fear of attack. Something had to be done. Prisons were too soft, too comfortable. Why should the criminals be treated better than the victims? It was no real deterrent. And I'm sure we all acknowledge that a change of system was desperately needed. But this? It's disgusting. When did we stop seeing human life as sacred? Every person has a right to life, even criminals. Ours has become a throw-away culture, and that is the way our government is dealing with our issues. Cast away the problems. Kill the troublemakers. As if once you commit a crime, you forgo your right to life. It isn't that simple. People deserve a second chance to make amends for their wrongdoings.”

The crowd cheered and Raven clapped with enthusiasm, before moving to another speaker.

“Religion is not at fault here. As Christians, we stayed true to our faith, to the word of God. We were helping others. After all, in the face of doom we needed people to listen, to acknowledge that when facing the decline of morality we needed to beg for salvation. To lay ourselves at the feet of the Lord and say, 'I'm sorry.' But the world wouldn't listen. They thought they knew better. Of course we're not advocating terrorist action, but in some situations a bold statement is needed to make people hear us. This is NOT religion's fault, this is man's failing. Man's inability to follow the Lord. Man's arrogance. We deserved this. And all we can do now is to pray, to beg the Lord for salvation. Hope is not lost yet. We are all God's children. Let us pray for those in Salverford.”

Raven frowned. They all hated the Phoenix Project, but religion? That was taking things a bit far. One or two people prayed with her, but most people kept a wide berth. Religion was too taboo. When the terrorism had started with the tube station bombings and the execution of journalists, the government had blamed the religious groups themselves and passed the first law against freedom of expression. No religion should be allowed to preach their values outside of their designated places of worship. It was the first step in curbing their influence.

People reacted with uproar and riots raged across the country for weeks, but with the steady stream of propaganda in newspapers and across every TV station, the public began to feed off the exaggeration and the fear-mongering. Within a year or two, they started to fear and hate religion itself. When a gunman walked down the street, firing indiscriminately and shouting about their god, some people followed the tabloid press and blamed the entire religion, not that individual.

It wasn't long before attacks on churches, mosques and synagogues became commonplace, and preachers and clergymen were forced out of communities. Shortly after that, places of worship started to be attacked and torn down.

Some religions had become despondent, accepted their fate and faded out. Some die-hard fundamentalists tried to hold on to their faith, but they became outcasts very quickly, scorned by their fellow man. They took to street corners, shouting and waving their signs, until they were physically removed by police for causing a disturbance.

Most people who had lived by a religion before the breakdown continued to believe. Their faith could not be shaken by something so horrid. If anything, their beliefs became stronger in the face of such adversity, but now it was something they had to keep quiet, hidden behind closed doors in the secret of their own homes. And without places for the devout to gather, it became difficult to recruit new followers, to nurture the young in the ways of the faith. With the avalanche of negative propaganda in the media, the younger generations naturally steered away from faith.

Gradually, the influence of religion began to die away, and with it, the number of believers.

The Catholic Church had refused to wither away into nothingness and had changed from peaceful to indignant. Even now, three years after the decimation of the Vatican, religion was still a frightening concept. People avoided mention of the Catholics now and they slipped from the public eyes, seemingly forgotten. There were occasional murmurs of an uprising here, a terrorist plot there, but they were mostly dismissed as hearsay.

Raven edged away from the praying people and headed over to a table with a pile of leaflets. He picked one up and began to read.

“The Phoenix Project is currently in its eleventh month of a one year trial period at Salverford Penitentiary, following the successful implementation of the project at West Belsen prison. Intended to rid the world of terrorists and violent offenders, the Phoenix Project pits prisoners against each other, which has freed up a significant amount of space in prisons nationwide. The government is hailing the project as an enormous success, a breakthrough in justice and crime prevention. But what is the truth behind the Phoenix Project? So far, at Salverford there have been twenty-seven deaths. Nineteen men and eight women have died at the hands of fellow inmates in a crude boxing ring set up in an amphitheatre deep within the prison. How long will this continue? This September the government will hold a vote for the public to decide on the continuation of the Phoenix Project. If you feel the inhumanity as we do, join us outside Parliament for the Anti-Phoenix Project rally on September eighteenth and use your vote wisely on the nineteenth. Vote 'no' to the Phoenix Project.”

Raven wandered on and came to a small stage, set out at the front of the grassy area directly opposite the Houses of Parliament. Here a young woman was shouting passionately through a megaphone.

“What type of animals are we? I mean, come on, justice is one thing. Retribution? That's fine, but the Phoenix Project isn't either of these things—it's evil. We all hate crime, we're all afraid of terrorists, but this brutality is not the answer. I would like nothing more than to see criminals hang, to see the revival of good old capital punishment. An eye for an eye—that's fair. But what we're doing here is encouraging more violence. Did you know that they are now introducing television cameras into Salverford to film the fights? They are seriously considering broadcasting it to the public. This isn't the time of gladiators and public execution. How long will it be before the public is following this butchery and cheering along to the deaths of their fellow man? It's disgusting. We cannot allow this. So I am urging everybody to vote 'no' to Phoenix before it's too late.”

The crowd burst into applause. Raven, invigorated by her zealous display, clapped and cheered along with them. He watched her as she walked to the front of the stage and shook hands with people in the audience, all the time flashing them a charming smile.

He was still clapping when he heard angry voices from across the gathering. He saw them approaching: a gang of around twenty men, marching towards the protesters. It only took one look at their livid faces to know who they were.

It happened within seconds, the pro-Phoenix gang charged towards the protesters, fists flying. Some people at the back threw bottles into the crowds. There were cries of fear and alarm from all directions as people started to run, screaming and shouting. Some stopped to fight, punches and kicks being thrown indiscriminately. Placards and stalls were smashed to pieces and used as weapons. Raven froze in the middle of it all. Should he stay and defend his beliefs and his fellow protesters, or should he run like a coward? He looked frantically around and saw the young woman who had been talking on stage a moment before. She was struggling with a large pro-Phoenix supporter. The man hit her hard across the face and she fell to the ground.

Raven leapt into action and ran past fighting hordes to get to her, his heart pounding with the need to protect her. He was nearly knocked over by a man who was charging into the fight, but Raven shoved him aside and ran to where the woman lay on the ground. He dropped to his knees and gently touched her chin to turn her towards him. She had a cut on her lip and a large bruise developing underneath her eye. She seemed groggy and confused and there was fear in her eyes. He had to act quickly. He grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. She wobbled and rested her body weight against his side. He put his arm around her and looked for a way out of the brawl. On all sides of him people were fighting, panicking, grabbing their loved ones and running. Where were the police?

Raven, still steadying the girl, tried to escape to the road. They staggered together towards safety but their path was suddenly blocked by an aggressive man over a foot taller than Raven. One look at the cruel sneer on the man's face told Raven he wasn't interested in calm discussion. The man drew his arm back, hand balled into a huge, bulky fist.

Raven flinched, unable to defend himself as the fist flew forwards and caught him on the chin. He staggered with the blinding pain but remained on his feet. The girl gave a cry of fear and clung to him. He held on to her and tried to shield her from the advancing attacker. The next punch caught him on his temple and the world blurred for a few seconds before flickering and fading into darkness.

Chapter Three

Present day

The sun shone on the concrete walls of Salverford, the gritty floor warm to the touch as Raven found a cool shadow in the corner of the exercise yard. The other prisoners began to file out, filling their lungs with fresh air and turning their faces up to the afternoon sun. A peculiar bunch of tough guys shouting, trying to match each other's bravado; haunted, emaciated youths, wandering alone, staring at the ground; veterans of the prison, chatting and laughing, wise in the understanding that, if all was futile, they may as well enjoy their last weeks, months, years, however long they had left.

For four months Raven Kennedy had endured the sterility of Salverford, and the darkness that clouded his heart had increased daily. He had spoken to nobody, not a word in four whole months, except for the odd grunt to the guards when it was absolutely necessary. He didn't know if he was capable of maintaining a conversation anymore.

This antisocial attitude was a side effect of the depression which had racked him since his incarceration. It was difficult to maintain a positive attitude towards life when it could be torn from you at any moment, and the guilt and self-hatred Raven carried around with him made his heart darker with every passing day.

Four walls obscured Raven's view in all directions. Giant towers stood in every corner of the small rectangular exercise yard. Onyx, Amethyst, Emerald and Ruby. The gargantuan observers. He knew he would never escape them.

They had named the towers after precious materials to make them appear less terrifying, but in reality the design of the prison was inefficient and inhumane. Four equally-sized towers, two crammed with prisoners, two almost empty.

The two occupied towers were also the dirtiest. Even the outside was covered in a layer of grime, and Raven swore the corridors and cells had never been cleaned. The monstrous Onyx tower, an ugly concrete block, stood beside Raven and he glanced up at the towering structure as it blocked out the sun.

At least 300 cramped cells were inside the tower and it was almost always filled to capacity, every cell occupied by a thin, dirty prisoner. When one was killed, another hopeless case was ushered in to take their cell.

For the majority of inmates, the sterility of the basic cells was almost all they got to see, day in, day out. They visited the mess hall for meals but it was also a grey and dreary place to be, though at least there were other people to talk to. Coming to the yard once a week was a treat. It was an hour long, no exceptions.

Even in falling snow, freezing winds and rainstorms the prisoners had to stay outside. There was no shelter either, just four bare walls and four gigantic towers. In the summer it was a brutal heat trap, but the prisoners enjoyed the heat upon their skin, blistering sunrays falling on their bare arms.

The more optimistic prisoners even enjoyed the poor weather conditions, smiling as they opened their mouths and let the cold rain run in, tasting the sharp, fresh essence of winter. When it became really cold, they would race each other back and forth through the yard to keep their body temperatures up. Raven declined to join in. He preferred the numbness the aching cold brought.

Today the sun was bright, and the prisoners basked in the warmth, but Raven wanted to feel miserable, so he moved into the shade and sat with his back pressed against the red brick wall. The yard seemed sterile even in the warm spring sunlight. A perfect rectangle, it allowed no place to hide and no room for privacy. All you could do for peace and quiet was to find a corner, at least partially away from the keen gazes of the prowling guards. Whichever corner you sat in, a huge structure towered over you. Raven sat beneath Ruby Tower and he could feel a menacing warmth emanating from the monstrous building, as if it had eyes that bore into his back.

Raven looked over the hundred prisoners on this recreation shift. The brutish men of Onyx mixed with the equally tough women of Amethyst. On the ground between the two immense barrack towers, a tattered makeshift soccer net had been strung up and the inmates shouted and ran back and forth, enjoying a good game before they were ordered back to the isolation of their cells.

Some prisoners, the ones who preferred not to get involved with a game that frequently turned hostile, jogged the perimeter in an attempt to stay in shape. A young man, of no more than twenty years, ran past Raven. A new arrival, he still looked healthy and determined to stay alive.

Raven watched as the young man ran on, wondering how long his plucky optimism would last. But he knew the answer: Salverford would crush him as it crushed them all. It would either take his life or his sanity, and more than likely, it would take both.

The man jogged up to a group of female prisoners, who deliberately stood in his way, forming a wall that he would have to weave around. He slowed as he approached and gave them a charming grin, but they laughed and tried to trip him. He haphazardly dodged their obstacles, ignoring their mocking shouts and laughter.

Raven watched as he came to a stop at the bottom of Emerald Tower, an altogether different cell block. If Onyx and Amethyst were the slums, Emerald was the Taj Mahal. It was the same size as the other blocks, but had suites with multiple rooms forming apartments for the inmates.

Raven had never been inside, but he had overheard other prisoners gossiping about the curtains, carpets and paintings on the walls. The large and luxurious cells were reserved for the prisoners who gave something back to Salverford, those whose families paid a lot of money to keep them there, who abused political contacts or were media heroes. They were the people who really brought money into Salverford and in turn could buy their way into relative comfort and privacy.

Raven could see the opulence from where he sat, the golden glow of cozy lighting, thick plush curtains hanging at the crystal clean windows. It turned his stomach.

The tower he sat pressed up against was no better: Ruby, the administration block. It was mostly empty, an entire tower just to hold the equipment they used to promote and televise the fights. An enormous hulking skeleton, hollow and bare, while just metres away the prisoners of Onyx and Amethyst rotted in tiny, cramped cells.

It also housed the cellars where the stricter punishments were handed out. Raven had never been inside, but he had heard the stories of torture chambers, cells where the occupant had to sit in freezing cold water, and worst of all, the sensory deprivation chamber—the ominously named 'dark room.'

Raven was dragged from his thoughts as a stray ball flew through the air towards him. It hit him on the shoulder and rolled a few metres away.

“Hey, Kennedy! Ball!” A middle-aged woman shouted in his direction, with her hands on her uniformed hips. He looked at her blankly, then at the ball again, before turning away.

A tall, muscular man walked over.

“Kennedy. The ball. Lady wants it back. Pass it over.”

Raven's intense, dark eyes bore into the other man's, but he said nothing and didn't move a muscle. The man's mouth twitched with anger, but he walked over and picked the ball up himself.

“Jackass,” he hissed at Raven and spat a glob of saliva onto the ground at his feet.

Raven stared at the disgusting froth in the bright sunlight, slowly dwindling and drying in the warmth.

He shuffled further into the corner where the two walls met. He liked corners. It meant there was nothing hiding behind him.

A little more privacy would have been nice, but people kept coming to congratulate him on his first success in the ring. Every time somebody came over they were met by blank silence or a hostile glare. After a while they gave up and kept their distance.

Raven wished he was back in his room where he found relative comfort in the cool, dark cell, the isolation. He held his arms out in front of him. Faint red lines were streaked across his skin, some recent, others fading into white scars. The product of his self-hatred.

He had racked his brains over and over again to think of what he could use as a better weapon for his self-harm. Compulsion often took over his mind and he had to carve his skin open to calm the guilt that raged within him. He had been using anything he could get hold of, the edges of furniture, stones from the exercise yard, but nothing really worked to his satisfaction. He yearned to feel the sting as a blade ripped across his skin, the cathartic release of guilt and pain.

It wasn't that he was suicidal; he certainly wasn't planning on killing himself. If anything, he was desperate to stay alive for as long as possible, so that his own self-punishment could continue. If he died too soon, he could never achieve the level of retribution he felt he deserved. Cutting himself was just a means to an end, a way of dealing more pain without allowing himself to slip into the blissful oblivion of death.

But the guards weren't stupid; anything even vaguely dangerous was kept well away from the prisoners in their cells. But in the arena it was different. He didn't know how they did it, but sometimes when a fight was taking place, other prisoners would manage to fling a weapon into the ring. Only a week before, a knife had been thrown into his fight. He had seen the face of the man who had thrown it. Where had he gotten it from? Surely there was no way he'd taken it in with him when he was admitted. And all packages were thoroughly scanned and checked. It couldn't have come in that way.

There must be something I'm not seeing, he thought, and looked around the yard. Was one of these people connected to the outside world? He scanned the faces of the prisoners, and that was when he saw him. The large, broad-shouldered man who had thrown the knife into the ring during Raven's fight. His heart jumped. This could be it, his chance to get a weapon.

Raven hesitated for a long time, debating whether it would be worth it, whether it was a good idea. He hadn't spoken to another prisoner since he had been in Salverford, and he had been very happy to maintain that solitude. This wasn't meant to be a bonding exercise and he wasn't here to make friends.

Even though this was where he belonged, the idea of talking to another criminal made him uncomfortable. If he could last his entire sentence without ever speaking to another person, he would happily do that, but there was a voice nagging at the back of his mind, telling him he had to cut, he had to punish himself further.

He rose to his feet and walked over, interrupting the man's conversation with another inmate.

“What?”

“I need to talk to you,” Raven said bluntly, his voice cracking from weeks of disuse.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Go ahead,” he replied.

“Alone.”

The man stared back at him and there was silence for a few moments before he turned to the man beside him. He muttered something inaudible to Raven and the other prisoner glared at Raven before stalking off.

He turned back to look at Raven, eyebrows raised, questioning. Raven checked that no other prisoners were within earshot.

“Last week, in my fight, you threw a knife into the ring.” The man visibly stiffened as he heard the words. “Where did you get it from?”

“Don't know what you're talking about. That wasn't me.”

“I saw your face. I know it was you.”

The man looked nervous and drew a deep breath. “I can't tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I could only get it if I promised not to tell anybody the source.”

“Tell me now,” Raven barked, anger rising within him.

“Sorry, no can do.”

“TELL ME!” Raven roared and the man looked around nervously. Nobody was close enough to help him if the situation got out of hand. In the outside world, Raven would never have been so aggressive, especially to a man so much bigger than him. But in here, Raven had less to lose. There was nothing anybody could take from him anymore.

“Who did you get it from?” Raven hissed and clenched his fists, his eyes wild.

“She told me not to tell anybody,” the prisoner whispered, his eyes fixed on Raven's fists.

“She? Who's she?”

“I can't. I promised,” he mumbled.

“NOW!” Raven bellowed, grabbing the man's shirt collar and pulling him until their faces were only inches apart.

“Okay, okay. Take it easy. I'll take you to her,” he finally conceded.

Raven let go of his collar and pushed him away. The prisoner staggered backwards then walked across the yard, weaving through prisoners until he came to a small group of five people laughing and shouting to each other. The man leading Raven paused. “One minute,” he said and walked towards the group.

Excusing himself to the others, he pushed his way into their circle, leant in close to a young woman and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and her eyes flicked over to Raven. He watched her closely as she approached. She was short and slim, young, maybe in her early twenties, and she carried herself with dignity and confidence. Her dark blonde hair flowed around her sweeping shoulders and down to the small of her slender back.

Her face was striking to look at, like an eagle's. Her sloping nose came to a sharp point in the middle of her face. He imagined she'd be quite intimidating if she became angry. Yet at the same time, there was something fragile about her, something delicate around her soft, red lips and unblemished skin. Raven was quite taken with her appearance and thought that, had he met her before all of this had happened, he may have found himself attracted to her.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” She smiled, circling him, hands on her hips. “Our silent inmate. And what exactly do you want from me?”

He noticed her pronunciation wasn't British. She emphasized the middle of her words, her intonation sweeping up and down throughout her sentences. Certainly European. Maybe Spanish?

“You know what I want from you,” he said, narrowing his eyes, weighing her up.

“Really? How would I know that? I'm meeting you for the first time,” she replied, still circling him.

Raven took a deep breath to steady his impatience. “There's only one reason I'd talk to you.” He turned, eyes following her as she swept around him.

She grinned. “You'll have to be more specific.” She stopped and fixed him in her powerful gaze. Again, he was reminded of a bird of prey.

He could feel anger rising within him. He closed his eyes and tried to control it. If he didn't need her help so badly, he'd be across the yard by now.

“I was told that you can supply”—he looked around to make sure they weren't within earshot—“weapons. Is that true or not?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Look at me.” She held her thin arms out wide. “Do I look like the type of person who would illegally supply weapons?” Her face was innocent, incredulous at his suggestion, but he caught a hint of mockery behind her eyes.

“Fine, forget it,” he hissed through clenched jaws and started to walk away.

“Kennedy!” she shouted after him. “That is your name right? Kennedy?”

“It's my surname, yes.”

“What's your first name?”

“Why?” Raven asked, frowning.

“Just curious.”

“What's yours?”

“Alexia Di Marco. Now your turn.”

“Why?”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “You don't make conversation easy, do you? How do you expect to make any friends with an attitude like that?”

“I don't want friends.”

“Sure you don't. So what's your first name?”

He gave no answer and fumed silently to himself.

“Fine, don't answer me then. I know it's Raven.”

“Well if you know it then why did you ask me?”

“For kicks.”

“I don't think you'd find it so funny if we were anywhere other than here.”

She giggled in reply, a high-pitched, childlike laugh.

“You see, Raven”—she started to circle him again—“fun is scarce around here. I have to make my own entertainment and it turns out that winding you up is quite amusing. It's so easy. It looks like all you need is a push and you're off.”

“Do you really think you know anything about me? Look at you. You're the type of scum I hate in this place. You feed off others' misery for your own gain. You're in no position to make judgements about me.”

Her eyes darkened a little but the smile remained on her face.

“Firstly, I don't have to know anything about you, you're painfully transparent.” She raised her voice as he tried to argue with her. “And if you want something from me, you should try being more polite.”

“Look, let's just get to the point here. Can you get me a weapon or not?”

“Maybe. What were you after?”

“A knife, razor, anything sharp. Would that be possible?”