Judge of Black Fist

In Courtroom No.7 of the Los Angeles Superior Court, the smell of disinfectant mixed with the musty odor of old paper clung to Marcus Cole's skin like a sticky film. He wore a washed-white prison uniform, the fabric stretched tight by his broad shoulders and thick back. A dark brown scar ran from his elbow to his wristbone —— – a medal left from his peacekeeping mission in Afghanistan, designed to stop bullets. But now, under the shadow of the courtroom, that medal seemed utterly meaningless. "Marcus Cole, you are charged with illegally transporting military-grade weapons at Los Angeles Port on March 17,2024, involving $1.2 million in illicit transactions. Two witnesses have testified that you conducted dealings with the 'Nine-Headed Snake' criminal organization." Judge Valentino tapped his silver combbed hair and ice-cold eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses on the table. "The alibi submitted by your defense attorney has been verified as forged. Do you now plead guilty?" Marcus lifted his head, the Adam's apple rolling slightly. His voice carried the hoarseness of someone fresh out of a detention center, yet retained the characteristic composure of a Marine: "Your Honor, I didn't transport any weapons. On March 17th, I was accompanying the chemotherapy —— of my comrade Billy's mother at Santa Monica Hospital. Billy was found dead last week in his apartment with a gunshot wound to the head, and no fingerprints were left at the scene. As for those two witnesses, I don't even know them." "Objection!" The defense lawyer suddenly stood up, unaware that the tie was crooked at the collar of his suit. "The defendant tried to change the subject and did not provide any valid evidence to prove the authenticity of his remarks!" Judge Valentino snapped his fingers impatiently, cutting off Marcus's unspoken argument: "This court doesn't need to hear irrelevant speculation. The prosecution has presented a complete chain of evidence: surveillance footage from the port (showing clothing matching the defendant's but without facial details), suspicious bank transfer records from a' Narco' affiliate account, and written witness statements. Based on this, we hereby convict Marcus Cole of illegal weapons transportation and g**g collusion, sentencing him to five years in prison at Los Angeles State Penitentiary." "Wait!" Marcus clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, the bones jutting out like hard pebbles. "The person in the surveillance footage isn't me! That money transfer was fraudulently made under my identity! You didn't even get a handwriting analysis ——" "The verdict is in," Judge Valentino closed the case file with a crisp snap of the metal clip, as if driving a nail into Marcus's heart. As he stood up, Marcus noticed the prosecutor had discreetly slipped a brown paper envelope into his assistant's hand, who then slipped it unobtrusively into the sleeve of his suit jacket. The courtroom door creaked open, and two bailiffs stepped in, their handcuffs gleaming coldly under the fluorescent lights. Marcus didn't resist—his five years in the Marine Corps had taught him that brute force only invites humiliation when absolute power corrupts. As they escorted him through the empty rows of seats, a bitter taste rose in his throat. Billy's mother was still in the hospital, unaware of his death or the conviction of this "murderer." His parents had died in a car accident three years earlier, leaving no one to plead for justice. The iron-clad prison van reeked of sweat and rust. Marcus sat in the corner, facing two inmates whispering about "who's the toughest inmate" and "how to curry favor with guards for less beatin'." Leaning against the cold cabin wall, he closed his eyes as Billy's final call echoed in his mind: "Marcus, the Hydra crew found me. They ordered me to transport a shipment from the port to Mexico next week—claimed it's for their d**g cartel. I don't want to do this shady stuff, but they threatened to hit my mom......"" Three days after the call was dropped, Billy's body was found. Marcus reported the incident to the police but was immediately labeled as a "suspect in g**g infighting." Then, evidence of "weapon transportation" came crashing down on him like a bolt from the blue. He finally understood that Billy's death wasn't accidental – he himself had become a target —— for "Nine-Headed Snake" to purge his rivals. They needed a "scapegoat" to cover up the truth about the weapons shipment, and he, a former soldier with no connections who had been close to Billy, became their perfect choice. The prison van jolted for an hour before finally stopping at the gates of Los Angeles State Prison. The heavy iron doors creaked open with a grating sound, like a beast's gaping jaws ready to devour all. Marcus was escorted off the vehicle and followed by bailiffs into the registration room. The digital clock on the wall showed "10:17 AM," marking April 1, 2024 —— April Fool's Day. How ironic—his life would be dragged into hell on this very day. "Name?" asked the guard behind the registration desk, his head not raised, as he scribbled on the form with a pen in his hand. "Marius Cole." "Accusations? Sentence?" "Illegal transportation of weapons, five years." The guard finally lifted his head. A slightly portly middle-aged man with stubble on his chin, his wrinkled uniform still clinging to a greasy collar. He sized up Marcus with an unapologetic sneer: "Another big shot? Former soldier? You'd better know your place. Don't try to flex your muscles inside – or you'll get what you deserve." Marcus did not speak, but he straightened his back. He knew that prison rules were the same as battlefield rules, and that showing weakness would only invite more bullying. After the registration, another guard approached. It was a young man named Tom, in his twenties with light blond hair and silver earrings. Clutching a metal detector, he scanned Marcus's body and gruffly patted his pockets: "Got any cigarettes? Cash? Give me a tip, and I'll get you a better cell if you're in." Marcus frowned. "I don't have any cigarettes or cash." Tom's face immediately fell. The detector in his hand jabbed into Marcus's ribs: "Stop playing dumb! Who doesn't know you gangsters are carrying cash? Hand it out now, or I'll make you wait here all night!" Marcus shook his head in pain. "I'm not a gangster. I'm being wronged." "Wrongful?" Tom snorted, grabbing Marcus's prison collar and slamming him against the wall. "Who isn't 'wronged' after passing through this gate? Let me tell you—here I'm your gangster, I'll call you g**g. If you smoke, I'll supply cigarettes! Show some guts and hand it over now, or ——" Marcus's words were still unspoken when a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him, as if something was erupting from his eyes. Above Tom's head, a pale pink mist began to rise, revealing several ghostly scenes: how Tom had accepted two cigarettes from a prisoner's family at the prison gate yesterday, promising "to look after the man inside"; how he'd secretly slipped a prisoner's cash into his pocket during registration; and now, his relentless pressure on Marcus stemmed from losing money at last night's sports betting, hoping to squeeze some extra cash out of the new inmate. Marcus froze. He blinked, and the red mist disappeared again. Tom was still the same fierce-looking man in front of him. Was it an illusion? Or was he just mentally confused from the stress of recent events? "What? Are you dumb?" Tom, seeing Marcus didn't respond, assumed he was scared and tightened his grip. "If you don't give it to me now, I'll ——" "You bet the Rams won last night and lost $500, right?" Marcus suddenly spoke up, his voice calm but unquestioning. "And you took two Marlons from the family of the prisoner named Jimmy in Cell 3 and promised to help him change his stall away from the bathroom." Tom's face changed in an instant, his hand loosened and he took a step back, his eyes full of shock and wariness: "You... how did you know?" Marcus's heart skipped a beat. The fog wasn't an illusion! Could he see Tom's "lies"? Or perhaps, see what Tom was hiding? This discovery filled him with both excitement and tension —— If this were a power, it might be his only chance to survive in prison, even to clear his name. "How I found out is irrelevant," Marcus said, sitting up straight and staring Tom in the eye. "Now, I want to know if I can contact my attorney? I need to file new evidence." Tom's face turned pale with alternating bluish and white hues. He couldn't tell if Marcus truly knew something or was just trying to provoke him. The thought of his gambling debts and cigarette dealing being exposed to the warden—potentially leading to salary deductions or even dismissal—made him lose all confidence. Swallowing hard, he softened his tone: "Lawyer... You can only visit every Wednesday. Let's go to the cell first, and I'll handle the paperwork for you later." Marcus nodded and did not ask any more questions. He knew that now was not the time to investigate his abilities, but to get his feet firmly planted and get a handle on the prison first. Tom stopped harassing Marcus and led him through a long corridor. The cells on both sides echoed with boisterous chatter and curses. Some prisoners peered at Marcus from above the bars with predatory eyes, while others played cards inside, their tables littered with crumpled prison coins. The air was thick with a strange mix of sweat, musty odors, and disinfectant fumes that made one's head spin. "This is the place, cell 402." Tom stopped at a door and opened it with his key. "There's already someone inside. Just go in and be quiet." Marcus entered the cell, a space barely ten square meters in size. Inside stood two bunk beds, with a tiny bathroom tucked away in the corner – there wasn't even a door. In the innermost bunk sat a man in his thirties, gaunt and disheveled. A black snake motif —— marked his left arm: the emblem of the "Nine-Headed Serpent" g**g. The man looked up, a sneer on his lips, and stared at Marcus like a viper. "New guy? Former soldier? Heard you were against us and got a sentence?" Marcus's heart sank. He hadn't expected to run into the Hydra's men right after he got into prison. The next five years weren't going to be easy. He clenched his fists, nails deeply embedded in his palms. The "Eye of Truth" that had awakened in the registration room still burned faintly, and a faint mist seemed to rise before his eyes. He knew that from the moment he stepped into this prison, his war had only just begun. Not only did he have to survive, but he also had to find evidence to clear his name and avenge Billy —— Even if his opponent was the entire Nine-Headed Snake g**g, even if the road ahead was fraught with thorns. Outside the iron gate, Tom's footsteps faded into the distance. The cell's dim light flickered intermittently, while the man's cold laughter still lingered in the air. Marcus leaned against the chilly metal bars, gazing at the gray sky outside. His mind was set on one thought: Valentino, Tom, Hydra... You owe me—now I'll reclaim every last bit, piece by piece.