Rogue Badge

Chapter 3: The Architect

There is a bridge that connects Queens to Rikers Island. It’s a narrow, ugly strip of concrete spanning the East River. From the bus window, you can see the Manhattan skyline. The Empire State Building, the Chrysler, the Freedom Tower—they all glitter in the sunlight, looking like diamonds on black velvet.

They look close enough to touch. But once you cross that bridge, they might as well be on Mars.

The inmates call it "The Bridge of Pain." Because the only way back across is in a coffin or a pair of shackles.

I sat in the back of the Department of Correction bus, shackled hand and foot to a guy who smelled like wet garbage and kept muttering about how the CIA put a chip in his tooth.

My jaw still ached from where the giant in The Tombs had slammed me into the wall. My ribs throbbed with every pothole the bus hit. But I kept my face blank.

Mask on, Jerry. Always mask on.

News travels fast in the system. Faster than Wi-Fi. By the time I stepped off the bus and into the intake center of the George R. Vierno Center—one of the toughest houses on the Island—I wasn't just Inmate #84902 anymore.

I felt eyes on me. Whispers.

"That's him. The one who ate that guy's ear." "Look at him. Little guy. Crazy eyes." "Mad Dog."

I didn't hate the nickname. In a place where weakness is a death sentence, being thought of as clinically insane is a decent insurance policy. It buys you space.

Block 4 was a cavernous, two-tiered nightmare of steel and concrete. Sixty cells, thirty on top, thirty on the bottom, all facing a common area filled with bolted-down metal tables.

The noise was a constant, low-frequency roar. The slamming of dominoes, the shouting of arguments, the blare of a TV protected by plexiglass.

I walked in carrying my bedroll—a thin mattress, a sheet, and a pillow that felt like it was stuffed with rocks.

The segregation was immediate and absolute. It was like a map of New York City drawn in blood.

The Bloods held the phones. The Latin Kings held the TV. The Aryan Brotherhood—a small but vicious group here—held the weight pile.

And then there were the "Others." The unaffiliated. The targets.

I scanned the room, looking for my assignment. Cell 18. Bottom tier. Not good. Bottom tier means people can walk by and throw s**t—literally or figuratively—into your house whenever they want.

But I wasn't looking for my cell. I was looking for him.

Miller had given me a photo. Victor Chen.

It didn't take long to find him. He didn't blend in. In fact, he stood out precisely because he wasn't trying to intimidate anyone.

He was sitting at a table in the far corner, near the windows that let in slivers of grey light. While everyone else was posturing, flexing, or screaming, he was... reading.

He wore the same beige jumpsuit as the rest of us, but on him, it looked tailored. His hair was silver-grey, combed back neatly. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that caught the light. He looked like a university professor who had taken a wrong turn on his way to a lecture hall.

There were two other Asian inmates sitting at his table, but they weren't sitting with him. They were sitting around him. Guard dogs. One was stocky with a shaved head. The other was lanky, tapping nervously on the table.

Victor Chen turned a page of his book. He looked calm. Serene, even.

The Architect.

That’s what the Feds called him. Because he didn't just commit crimes; he designed them. He built structures that were impenetrable to law enforcement. And now, I had to find a way to crack the foundation.

I threw my bedroll onto the bunk in Cell 18. My cellmate was asleep, or pretending to be. I didn't introduce myself.

I walked back out into the dayroom. I needed to gauge the temperature. I needed to see how the ecosystem worked around Chen.

I went to the water fountain, taking a long drink while watching Chen’s table from the corner of my eye.

A massive guy—one of the lieutenants for the Bloods, a guy with "R.I.P." tattooed on his neck—was walking through the dayroom. He bumped into the table where Chen was sitting.

It wasn't an accident. It was a territory check.

The water on the table spilled. A few drops landed on Chen’s book.

The dayroom went quiet. Even the dominoes stopped clicking.

Chen didn't jump up. He didn't look angry. He slowly closed the book. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt.

The Blood lieutenant stood there, chest puffed out, waiting for a reaction. "Watch where you put your s**t, old man."

Chen put his glasses back on. He looked up. He didn't look at the guy's chest or his tattoos. He looked him straight in the eyes.

"My apologies," Chen said. His voice was soft, cultivated, with just a hint of an accent. "Space is a luxury we are all short of in here."

The gangster blinked. He expected fear. He expected aggression. He didn't know what to do with politeness.

"Yeah... well... keep it out of my way," the guy mumbled, losing steam. He walked away, but he walked away faster than he arrived.

I narrowed my eyes. Interesting.

Chen hadn't backed down. He had de-escalated the situation without surrendering an inch of dignity. He wielded respect like a weapon.

Miller was right. This guy wasn't a thug. He was a king in exile.

But kings are hard to approach. You don't just walk up to Caesar and ask to be his friend. You have to be useful. Or you have to save him.

My opportunity came sooner than I expected.

Twenty minutes later, the guards announced "chow time." The doors buzzed. The herd moved toward the cafeteria.

The flow of bodies was chaotic. In the crush of the hallway, I saw the lanky Asian kid—one of Chen's guard dogs—get separated from the pack.

He was young, maybe twenty. Nervous energy coming off him in waves. He was carrying a tray of commissary items for Chen. Soups, honey buns, coffee.

Two guys stepped in front of him. Low-level predators. I recognized them from the intake bus.

"Toll booth is open," one of them sneered, blocking the kid's path. "What you got there, sweetie?"

The kid stammered. "It... it's for Mr. Chen."

"Mr. Chen ain't hungry. We are."

They shoved the kid. He stumbled, dropping a packet of coffee.

I looked ahead. Chen was about twenty feet away, moving with the flow. The stocky guard dog was with him. They hadn't noticed the kid was cut off.

This was it. The ticket to the show.

I could have walked away. I should have walked away. Keeping a low profile, right?

But "Mad Dog" doesn't keep a low profile. And Jerry Yu needed an introduction.

I stepped out of the line.

"Hey!" I shouted.

The two predators turned. The lanky kid looked up, terrified.

I walked up to them, a loose, easy grin on my face. The same grin I wore when I hustled Rodriguez on the basketball court.

"You guys must be new," I said, stepping between them and the kid.

"Who the hell are you?" the bigger one asked.

I pointed to my ear. Then I pointed to his ear. I made a chomping motion with my teeth.

Recognition dawned in his eyes. He took a half-step back. The story had traveled fast indeed.

"This is private business, man," he said, but his voice wavered.

"Actually," I said, picking up the packet of coffee from the floor and dusting it off. "It's my business. Because I haven't had my caffeine yet, and I get really... hungry... when I have a headache."

I stepped closer, invading his personal space. I smelled like violence. I made sure my eyes were wide, unblinking.

"You want the coffee?" I whispered. "Or do you want to keep your lobes?"

The guy looked at his friend. His friend shrugged, clearly not wanting to fight the cannibal from The Tombs.

"Whatever, man. Keep the trash."

They turned and melted back into the crowd, looking for an easier victim.

I turned to the lanky kid. He was shaking.

"You okay?" I asked, handing him the coffee.

"Y-yeah. Thanks," he breathed. "I'm Mouse."

Mouse. Of course. Every crew has a Mouse.

"I'm Sin," I said.

"I know," Mouse said, looking at me with a mix of awe and fear. "Everyone knows."

"Good. Now pick up your tray. You're making us look bad."

We walked into the cafeteria. Mouse led me through the maze of tables, straight to the back corner.

Victor Chen was sitting there, his tray of food untouched. The stocky guard was glaring at me.

Mouse set the commissary items down on the table, his hands still trembling.

"Sorry, Mr. Chen. Got held up," Mouse mumbled. Then he gestured to me. "This guy... Sin. He helped me out."

Victor Chen looked up. Behind those wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were sharp, intelligent, and completely unreadable. He looked at Mouse, then he looked at me.

He didn't smile. He didn't say thank you.

He simply gestured to the empty plastic seat across from him.

"Please," Chen said softly. "Sit."

I sat.

The noise of the cafeteria seemed to fade away. It was just me and the Architect.

"I heard about the incident at The Tombs," Chen said, opening a packet of soy sauce with precise, delicate movements. "Unorthodox fighting style. Effective, but messy."

"I work with what I got," I said, keeping my tone flat.

Chen nodded slowly. "Adaptability is a valuable trait. Most men in here... they are rigid. They break because they cannot bend."

He pushed his tray slightly toward me.

"Are you hungry, Sin?"

It was a test. Everything was a test. If I took the food, I was a charity case. If I refused, I was disrespectful.

I reached out, took an apple from his tray, and took a loud, crunchy bite.

"Just a snack," I said, chewing. "I'm watching my figure."

For the first time, a faint smile touched the corner of Victor Chen's lips.

"Welcome to Rikers, Mr. Sin," he said. "It seems life is about to get interesting."

I swallowed the apple. It tasted like cardboard. But as I looked into the eyes of the man I was sent to destroy, I knew one thing for sure.

I was in.