Rogue Badge

Chapter 2: The Fish Tank

They took my belt. They took my shoelaces. They took my name.

For the last three years, I was Cadet Yu. Now, I was Inmate #84902.

The processing center at the Manhattan Detention Complex—affectionately known as "The Tombs"—smelled like industrial disinfectant trying to cover up the scent of unwashed bodies and fear.

"Spread 'em," the Correction Officer barked. He was a bored-looking guy with a mustache that hadn't been in style since 1985.

I did the drill. Squat and cough. Turn around. Lift your tongue.

It was humiliating. It was dehumanizing. It was exactly what Miller wanted.

According to the paperwork, Jerry Yu had snapped. After being expelled from the Academy, the disgrace was too much. I had supposedly gone to a bar in Hell’s Kitchen, drank a bottle of whiskey, and smashed a beer glass into the face of an off-duty cop who looked at me funny.

Assault with a Deadly Weapon. Resisting Arrest. Assault on a Police Officer.

Miller didn’t do things by halves. If you’re going to sell a lie, you wrap it in felony charges and tie it with a bow made of prison time.

"Alright, Superstar," the C.O. sneered, tossing me an orange jumpsuit that was two sizes too big. "Get dressed. You're moving to the bullpen."

I pulled on the scratchy fabric. It felt like wearing a target.

The Bullpen—or "The Fish Tank"—is where they keep the new arrivals before sorting them into general population at Rikers Island. It’s a concrete box filled with the dregs of New York City: drunks, dealers, brawlers, and psychopaths, all waiting for a judge or a bus.

The moment the heavy steel door slammed shut behind me, the noise hit me. Shouting, crying, threats, prayers. It was a cacophony of misery.

I scanned the room. Cop instinct.

Sector One: The corner. Dominated by the Latin Kings. Gold chains, neck tattoos, speaking rapid-fire Spanish.

Sector Two: The benches. The Bloods. Red bandanas, heavy muscle, loud. Sector Three: The floor. The mental cases, the drunks, and the terrified first-timers—the "Fish."

And then there was me. The solitary Asian guy.

In the US prison system, race is everything. It’s your tribe. It’s your protection. If you’re Black, you roll with the Kin. If you’re Latino, you got the Kings or Trinitarios. If you’re White, you got the Aryan Brotherhood or the biker gangs.

If you’re Asian? You’re prey. You’re the guy everyone thinks knows karate or has money stashed in his sock.

I found a small patch of wall near the toilet—the worst real estate in the room, but the only place where I could watch the door and keep my back covered. I slid down, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to look small.

Rule Number One of Undercover Work: Blend in.

Rule Number One of Prison: Don't look like a victim.

These two rules were currently fighting a death match in my head.

I had been there for maybe twenty minutes when a shadow fell over me.

"Yo, Jackie Chan."

I didn't look up. Maybe he’d go away.

"I'm talking to you, little man."

A boot nudged my leg. Hard.

I looked up. Standing over me was a guy the size of a vending machine. He was wearing a dirty tank top, his arms covered in prison ink. He had a scar running through his eyebrow and a grin that showed missing teeth.

He wasn't a boss. Bosses don't bother with the fresh meat in the bullpen. He was a predator. A bottom-feeder looking for a quick ego boost or a commissary ticket.

"I like them sneakers," he said, pointing at my laceless Nikes. "Take 'em off."

The cell went quiet. The chatter died down. Humans are like wolves; they can smell a hierarchy forming. Everyone wanted to see if the fresh fish would flop or fight.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. This wasn't a sparring match with Rodriguez in the gym. There were no referees. No whistles. If I went down here, I’d be a target for the rest of my sentence. I’d be someone’s girlfriend by nightfall.

"I said," the giant leaned down, his breath smelling of rot, "give me the shoes."

I stood up slowly. I was five-ten, 170 pounds. He was at least six-four, 250.

"They won't fit you," I said softly. My voice trembled slightly. Perfect. Let him think I’m scared.

"I'll make 'em fit," he laughed, reaching for my collar.

Calculation is free.

He was big, but he was slow. He was confident, which meant his guard was down. He expected me to cower or throw a weak punch at his iron jaw.

I didn't punch.

As his hand grabbed my jumpsuit, I grabbed his wrist with both hands, not to pull away, but to anchor myself.

Then, I launched myself upward.

I didn't aim for his face. I opened my mouth wide and clamped my teeth onto his ear.

Hard.

I bit down with every ounce of frustration, fear, and rage I had bottled up since Miller ruined my life. I tasted iron. I felt cartilage snap.

"AAAAHHH!" The scream was deafening.

He thrashed, trying to shake me off, but I was a pit bull. I wrapped my legs around his waist, hanging on, grinding my teeth, tearing at the flesh.

He slammed me into the concrete wall. My head cracked against the stone, stars bursting in my vision, but I didn't let go. I tightened my jaw.

He slammed me again. And again.

Finally, with a wet rip, I was thrown to the floor.

I scrambled back, spitting out a chunk of bloody gristle onto the concrete. My mouth was painted red. I grinned—a wild, manic, bloody grin.

"Come on!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "Come get the shoes! They come with the teeth!"

The giant was clutching the side of his head, blood pouring through his fingers, wailing like a child. He looked at me with pure horror. He expected a fight. He got a mutilation.

The rest of the cell stared at me. The Latin Kings in the corner stopped talking. The Bloods on the bench looked up.

Silence.

Then, a slow clap started from the back of the room.

It was an older Black man with grey in his beard, sitting calmly on a bench like he owned the place. He nodded at me.

"Crazy motherfucker," someone whispered.

"Mad Dog," another voice said.

I wiped the blood from my chin, my chest heaving. My head was spinning, my ribs ached, and I wanted to vomit. But I stood my ground.

The door buzzer sounded. Two C.O.s rushed in with batons drawn, seeing the blood.

"Back against the wall! All of you!"

They dragged the weeping giant out to the infirmary. One of the guards looked at me, then at the piece of ear on the floor, then back at me. His eyes widened slightly.

"You got a problem here, inmate?" the guard asked, his baton twitching.

I looked him dead in the eye, the metallic taste of violence still in my mouth.

"No, Officer," I rasped. "Just a disagreement about fashion."

The guard shook his head and shoved me back toward the wall. But he didn't hit me. And he didn't put me in cuffs.

As the door slammed shut again, the atmosphere in the room had shifted. The predators looked away. The space around me grew a little wider. I had bought myself some real estate.

I slid back down the wall, my hands shaking uncontrollably now that the adrenaline was fading. I closed my eyes.

Day One.

I had survived the Fish Tank. But tomorrow, I was going to the Island. And Miller, that son of a b***h, was probably sleeping soundly in his bed while I was picking human flesh out of my teeth.

If I ever got out of here, I wasn't just going to be a cop. I was going to be the worst nightmare the bad guys—and the good guys—had ever seen.

I spit on the floor one last time.

"Next," I whispered to the darkness.