The Boss’s face twitched. Just once. A tiny spasm at the corner of his scarred mouth, like some half-forgotten nerve had suddenly remembered it used to belong to a younger man.
His one good eye stayed locked on me, sharp and hateful, while the glassy one caught the torchlight and glimmered like a fish belly in the dark. Then, slowly—carefully—like a man picking his way across thin ice, he asked:
"What have you done?"
Oh, saints, those words. He didn’t bark them. He didn’t snarl them. He whispered them the way a priest might whisper over a coffin: softly, reverently, like he already feared the answer. And of course, being the absolute menace that I am, I smiled.
Because what else do you do when the scariest bastard in the prison asks you to confess? You flirt with the confessional, you bat your lashes at the noose, you giggle into the abyss and hope it giggles back.
"Well," I began, dragging out the word like taffy. "That depends entirely on your definition of done, doesn’t it? Some people call it crime, some people call it entrepreneurship. Personally, I like to think of it as... housecleaning. Except instead of dusting shelves, I dismantled Malrick, stole all his toys, and decided to redecorate."
I watched the twitch ripple through his cheek again. Saints, it was beautiful, a little hiccup in that stone-carved façade. He blinked, once, then twice, the glassy eye staring dead ahead while the good one seemed to fight with itself over whether to widen in horror or narrow in suspicion.
"You—" he stammered, the scar on his lip tugging at the word. "You took down Malrick?!"
I tilted my head, playing innocent. "Mmhm. Stole his supplies, pinched his men, kept a few coins for myself, and then—" I gave a theatrical little flourish with my hands, "—crafted something exquisite. A little miracle called Erosin. You might’ve heard of it. It’s all the rage in the lower cells. Very chic."
He didn’t move for a full heartbeat. Then another. His good eye twitched, darting away and then back again as though begging the world to prove me wrong. "Say that again," he muttered. "Tell me I didn’t just hear what I think I heard."
I leaned forward, lips parting in the sweetest, cruelest grin. "Darling," I purred, "I took down your biggest rival and turned his empire into my perfume."
The Boss recoiled. Not physically, no—he was too proud for that. But I saw it. That flicker of horror, the way his shoulders stiffened like a man suddenly realizing the noose had been tied with his own rope.
And me? Oh, saints, I couldn’t resist. "Honestly, I was expecting some applause. A standing ovation, maybe a fruit basket. Nothing too extravagant. But this..." I gestured at his aghast face, "this is very underwhelming feedback."
The Boss pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. "You’re insane," he muttered. "Completely, utterly insane."
"Compliment accepted."
"I didn’t mean—" He cut himself off with a groan. His voice dropped lower, gravel spilling through his throat. "Do you even understand the consequences of what you’ve done? Of distributing Erosin here, in this place?"
I opened my mouth, ready with a witty retort, but fate—as usual—decided to outshine me.
The air shifted.
At first, it was nothing more than a tremor—a ripple through the cavern’s stagnant musk, subtle as a sigh. A prisoner stilled mid-swing of his pickaxe, eyes flicking sideways.
Fingers brushed a shoulder and lingered a beat too long. A breath hitched, low and trembling. Somewhere in the shadows, a muffled moan slipped free, caught hastily between clenched teeth.
And then the spark caught.
Hunger.
It moved like fire through dry grass, racing unseen, unstoppable. One gaze locked with another. One hand tugged fabric loose. One mouth crashed open against a throat. And in an instant, the cavern was aflame—not with torches, not with labor, but with raw, unfiltered desire.
Bodies lunged together with feverish urgency. Lips collided, hungry and unashamed. Gasps echoed off the stone, sharp and startled, melting quickly into whimpers that bled into groans.
And then the flood broke.
The cavern dissolved into a tangle of sweat and skin, the clang of iron swallowed by the wet and frantic symphony of flesh. Skin smacked against skin, slick and urgent.
Teeth scraped, nails raked angry-red lines down bare backs and thighs. Men and women alike clawed their way out of their rags, bodies grinding together with desperate rhythm, every motion fevered, greedy, and unrestrained.
It was madness. It was rapture. It was the sound of starvation turned loose, of prisoners feasting on each other like they’d been waiting lifetimes for the permission to do so.
And there, saints bless me, was that same orc woman from our section—already naked, already dripping, already pinned to the stone by three sets of eager hands. Her tusked grin split wide as she grunted in pleasure, hips bucking, sweat gleaming down her marble green skin.
I snorted, couldn’t help it. It was glorious, chaotic, indecent—and exactly what I’d intended.
The Boss turned slowly, his lip curling into a sneer. "You find this funny?"
I tilted my head, watching the orc grunt through another pounding thrust. "A little," I admitted. "I mean, look at her stamina. That’s some impressive cardio."
His glare sharpened. "This isn’t a joke. This—" he jabbed a finger at the writhing masses, "—this is ruin. This is the end of structure, of order. If the Erosin continues to spread unchecked, the prison will devour itself within a matter of days."
I pursed my lips, pretending to consider. Then I shrugged. "And?"
"And?!" He nearly roared the word. "Do you have any idea what happens when the gangs lose their order? When the guards lose their control? This place will become a slaughterhouse. You’ve signed your own death sentence. You’ve signed all of ours!"
"Or," I said sweetly, "I’ve signed us up for the best party this pit has ever seen. Depends on your perspective."
He groaned again, dragging his hand down his face.
Just then, Brutus appeared.
Gods above, what a sight. He swatted away a gaggle of half-naked women pawing at his legs, his free arm clutching a fat pile of bronze coins stacked high against his chest. Sweat poured down his forehead, his scowl deeper than the caverns themselves, but by the gods he looked almost... proud.
The Boss’s face twisted into a scowl darker than any I’d seen yet.
"You," he snapped, rounding on Brutus. "I let you follow this gutter rat because I thought you’d keep him in check. And this is what you allow?"
Brutus didn’t flinch. He just shrugged, coins glinting in his massive fist. But the look in his eyes—sharp, defiant, dangerous—spoke louder than words.
The cavern air thickened again, tension rippling between them like lightning between storm clouds.
I stepped in quickly, clapping my hands together. "Gentlemen, gentlemen. Let’s not turn this into a dick-measuring contest. Spoiler alert: Brutus wins."
The Boss snapped his gaze toward me, fury blazing. "You don’t understand. Every other gang in this prison will come for you now. For all of you. Perhaps all at once."
I leaned back, smirking. "Oh, I do understand. And I welcome it. What’s life without a little war to spice things up?"
He froze. His scar twitched again. Then, slowly, his lips pulled into the faintest, most reluctant smirk.
"You’re either the bravest bastard I’ve ever met," he muttered, "or the stupidest."
"Why not both?" I batted my lashes.
He snorted, shaking his head. Then he turned, cloak swishing, his hulking bald escort trailing behind him like a living shadow.
Just before he vanished into the dark, he threw one last glance over his shoulder. "Even with your flaws, you amuse me. I’ll be watching..."
I blew him a kiss. And then he was gone.
Just then, the crack of the officer’s whip split the cavern like thunder.
A sharp, ugly sound—steel biting air, iron links snapping taut—that once upon a time would’ve sent me scrambling like a rat. The kind of sound that told you exactly who was in charge here, and just how worthless your skin was.
But oh, saints above, what a difference a little drug can make.
Because instead of screams, instead of begging, instead of flinching back like beaten dogs, the prisoners moaned. Louder. Hungrier. Their voices rose in pitch, not in pain but in delirious pleasure, the whip’s sting melted into the haze of Erosin until it became just another caress.
The officer’s face twitched. His posture cracked. He drew back his whip again, chains rattling, and lashed out with a roar—only to be answered by more gasps, more bodies writhing, more sweat glistening in the torchlight.
I swear I saw his hands shake.
And then the real punchline hit.
A group of naked slave women broke from the frenzy, their collars jingling as they pressed themselves against him. Their fingers clawed at his armor straps, their lips dragged against the edges of his metal jaw, their hips swayed with desperate, rhythmic hunger. One bold little thing tugged at the belt, teeth flashing with a grin that promised ruin.
The officer howled, voice breaking into something raw—rage, shame, or hunger, I couldn’t tell. He fought it for all of three heartbeats before giving in. His whip clattered to the stones, forgotten, as his hands fumbled to grasp bare skin and greedy mouths.
And there it was. Victory.
I leaned back against the cavern wall, inhaling deep, letting the thick musk of sweat and sex crawl down my throat. My chest filled with it, my blood simmered with it, and I exhaled in a single, satisfied sigh.
This wasn’t chaos. This was an empire. My empire.
Our meal came as depressing as before, ladled into us with all the grace of slop poured for pigs. Rat soup, piss-warmed water, chunks of bread that could’ve doubled as construction bricks.
I ate it anyway. You’d be surprised how luxurious it feels to sip piss-water after watching half a cavern rut itself into exhaustion. The soup even had half a whisker this time—extra protein, as the optimists would say.
But I wasn’t really thinking about the soup.
I was thinking about our profits.
Because by the time Brutus and I were herded back into our cell, we’d sold every last scrap of our batch. Not a single bit left. Not a single drop of sweat wasted. Every coin, every crumb, every scrap of value this pit could offer had been wrung out of our little experiment.
Brutus dumped the earnings in a pile on the floor, and together we began to sort.
The sight was obscene. There were the prisoners’ wages skimmed from Sections Six and Twelve, the fat purses of guards too horny to keep their belts tight, and my winnings from the secret arena.
Alongside this lay the guard’s cloak, folded neat in the corner like an incriminating bedsheet.
And then—oh, the keys.
The iron glimmered faintly in the torchlight. Jagged, simple, but heavy with promise. I twirled them on one finger, grinning like a child with a new toy. They sang to me, those keys. Sang of doors opening, chains falling, steps rising into a portion of the city I hadn’t yet tasted.
In truth, we could’ve broken out that very instant. Slipped the keys into the lock, cloaked ourselves in stolen armor, and vanished into the veins of the prison.
But then there was the Gutterbrand.
That cursed mark. That iron collar that kept me tethered here like a dog to its post. I could almost feel it tightening as I thought of escape, its invisible heat licking at my throat, reminding me that if I even took one step into the next level of the city it would melt the very flesh from my bones.
That was the real shackle. Not the bars. Not the chains. Not the guards.
It was this simple revelation. Such a restriction was the very reason I needed money in the first place—and not just money, but a dragon’s hoard of it, enough to bribe the sectional warden himself. Enough to buy my freedom from the curse.
I traced the edge of my collar absently, lips twisting into a smile.
"Soon," I whispered to myself.
For now, it was nearly free time again. Which in this prison meant exactly one thing: time to mingle. To whisper. To plot. To press flesh against flesh and let plans sweat their way into existence.
It was time to reunite with my crew.
Brutus and I gathered the day’s fortune, spilling it into the stolen cloak until it sagged heavy like a bloated purse. We left the shotgun tucked neatly beneath the bed, the keys nestled in a crack in the stone where no curious hand would find them. Our insurance, our future.
And just as I brushed the dust off my skirt and swayed toward the gates, fate—as usual—came knocking.
Two guards arrived. Armor clinking, masks carved with lazy sigils.
"Free time," one grunted.
Brutus groaned beside me, hefted the sack of coins over his shoulder, and together we stepped out into the open.
Well then, time for the real expansion to begin.