Marcus.

A man who looks like he's been sculpted from the walls of hell itself, sat at the lunch table; blonde hair, almost white in the dim light, neatly combed back. His blue eyes, the color of a winter sky and as sharp as razor blades, glinting with psychotic amusement. He was 35, though the weight of his life, the lives he'd controlled and taken, seemed to age him beyond that. He wore crisp, charcoal grey sweats, the all too drab prison uniform.

Around the table, three of his 'soldiers,' faces etched with a blend of loyalty and fear, shuffled cards. The air was heavy with the smell of smuggled cigars and the quiet click of poker chips, a sound that usually meant trouble, but here it was just another night in Marcus's domain.

The guards hated it, most of them did. They passed Marcus’s cell block with averted eyes, their steps quick, as if afraid of what they might see. He had woven a web of silence with blood, fear and cold, hard cash. There were those who took his money, their principles as flimsy as the paper bills. Others simply didn't dare to cross him; they had seen what happens if they did, they knew it was easier to look away.

The air in Cell Block D was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with overcrowding and everything to do with Marcus Volkov.