The Prisoned Alpha

The air in Black River Prison was a thick, stagnant mixture of sweat, fear, and institutional cleanser, a cloying smell that clung to every cracked concrete surface. It was a place built of sound: the rhythmic clang of steel doors, the distant shouts of guards, the constant, low-frequency hum of a thousand trapped men. Here, the world was a palette of bruised grays and rust-browns, a perpetual twilight filtered through barred windows that offered no comfort, only a constant, mocking reminder of the sky outside. This was Xander Mahon's world, and had been for ten years, a decade spent navigating the razor's edge between survival and oblivion. He sat on a splintered bench in the yard, a figure of silent, immovable stone amidst the shifting tide of inmates. His broad shoulders, a monument of muscle and bone, were hunched slightly, an unconscious shield against the incessant threat that permeated the yard. A decade had etched itself into his face, deepening the lines around his bright blue eyes and reinforcing the hard set of his jaw. His shaggy black hair and thick, wild beard were a testament to his disregard for the prison's meager grooming standards, and his arms, covered in intricate black tribal tattoos, were a story in a language few here could read. He was a ghost to most, a legend whispered about in hushed tones. They called him "The Ghost" or "The Mountain," a man who spoke only in clipped, necessary sentences and moved with a lethargic grace that was at odds with the explosive strength he was rumored to possess. Few dared to approach him, and those who did often learned a hard lesson in the cold, unforgiving reality of a man who had nothing left to lose. As he watched the chaos of the yard unfold—a game of basketball devolving into a shoving match, two men arguing over a cigarette, a solitary figure lifting weights in a corner—a low growl, like grinding gravel, scraped against the inside of his skull. It wasn't a sound from the outside world; it was a voice only he could hear, a voice that was both a part of him and a separate, seething entity. "The weak ones… they make me sick," Bane’s voice rumbled, dark and full of contempt. "Look at them, fighting over scraps. Pathetic." Xander’s jaw tightened, his gaze never leaving the yard. "Leave it, Bane," he thought, his own voice a calm, firm command in the storm. "Leave it? We rot in this cage and you want me to leave it?" Bane snarled, his voice a tidal wave of pure, animalistic rage. "You let that runt poison us, you let them trap us here. You are a king in a cage, Alexander." "I am controlled," Xander countered silently, the familiar ache of the wolfsbane-laced weekly shot burning in his veins. The drug was a slow, creeping poison that dulled his senses and drained his strength, but it was also a leash on the beast within, a necessary evil that kept him from tearing the prison, and everyone in it, to shreds. He could feel Bane's impatience, a volatile energy coiled in his gut, a hungry predator pacing behind a flimsy barrier. Bane’s rage was a constant drumbeat, a dangerous rhythm that pulsed beneath the surface of his carefully constructed calm. A shadow fell over him, pulling him from the depths of his internal war. A hulking man with a shaved head and a face like a pitted rock stood over him. It was Razor, a well-known white supremacist and the current alpha of his gang within the prison walls. He reeked of cheap cologne and the kind of misplaced aggression that only existed in a place like this. "Move, Ghost," Razor sneered, his voice a low threat. "This bench is for us." Xander didn't move. He simply lifted his bright blue eyes, now cold and hard as chips of glacial ice, to meet Razor's. The silence stretched between them, a tangible weight that drew the attention of the other inmates. A small crowd began to gather, sensing the shift in the air. "Kill him," Bane’s voice was a low whisper, a sweet, dark suggestion. "Tear his throat out. Show them what a real Alpha looks like." "I said move!" Razor’s hand shot out, grabbing Xander’s shoulder and attempting to shove him. It was a mistake. Before the shove could even register, Xander’s hand shot up, a blur of motion. His fingers wrapped around Razor’s wrist, and with a quiet, sickening snap, he twisted. A bone in Razor's wrist broke with an audible crack, and the hulking man let out a howl of pain. The crowd went silent. Xander, still seated, held Razor’s arm in a vice-like grip. "Don't touch me again," Xander said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that was a physical force in the air. He released Razor’s wrist, and the man staggered back, cradling his now-useless hand and glaring at Xander with a mixture of hatred and fear. The other members of Razor's gang, who had been advancing, now froze in their tracks. They knew the legend was true. They knew Xander was a force they could not contain. Razor, humiliated and furious, simply backed away, his gang retreating with him. Xander watched them go, his face impassive, and a cold satisfaction settled in his mind. "See? You're not so weak," Bane purred, his voice filled with a feral pleasure. "One of these days, you'll let me out to play. And when you do, none of them will ever forget it." Xander didn't respond. He simply sat there, a king on his throne of splintered wood, the silence of the crowd a new kind of atmosphere—a silence of respect, of fear, and of awe. It was a silence he had earned, and it was the only one that mattered in Black River Prison. Xander stayed on the bench for a long time, even after the last of the inmates had been called back inside. He was always one of the last to leave the yard. It was the only place in Black River where the sky, however gray and distant, wasn't framed by a concrete ceiling. The silence that now enveloped him was different from the morning’s clamor; it was a heavy quiet born of fear. He had shattered the pecking order with a single, brutal act, and now he would wait for the inevitable retaliation. In this place, every action had an equal and opposite reaction, and a fractured bone was a promise of a more profound debt to be paid. When the bell for evening lockdown finally rang, a jarring, metallic shriek that echoed through the empty yard, Xander rose with a slow, deliberate grace. He moved like a shadow, weaving through the thick steel doors and down the long, graffiti-covered hallways. Heads turned, eyes followed him, but no one spoke, and no one dared to block his path. The new respect was as palpable as the smell of mildew and disinfectant. "The coward won't challenge you alone," Bane’s voice rumbled, a low growl of satisfaction. "He will bring his rats with him. Better to kill them all now and get it over with." "No," Xander thought, the word a steel-trap on his thoughts. "We wait." "Wait for what? For them to shank us in our sleep? Your human weakness will get us killed, Alexander." "No," Xander repeated, more to himself than to his wolf. "My control will keep us alive." He entered the mess hall, a vast, cacophonous chamber that reeked of overcooked meat and old grease. The air was a thick fog of noise and body heat, a thousand men crammed together, shouting, laughing, and arguing. He took his place in the line, his tray moving slowly toward the food. The serving guard, a burly man named Gus, met his eyes and offered a subtle nod of respect, a silent acknowledgment of his altercation in the yard. Xander simply nodded back, his face a mask of indifference. He received a scoop of bland, gray slop, a few watery beans, and a slice of hardened bread. The food, like everything else in the prison, was meant to sustain life, but not to nourish it. He found his usual table in a corner, far from the fray, and began to eat. The wolfsbane was a cruel master, and it demanded fuel. Without a constant intake of food and water, the drug's effects would be even more severe, a brutal drain on his immense strength. As he ate, he could feel Bane’s hunger, not for the food on the tray, but for the raw, visceral power that had been taken from them. The wolf’s anger was a low, simmering fire in his belly, a constant reminder of their diminished state. "This is an insult," Bane spat, his voice a violent tremor in Xander’s skull. "We should be hunting in the forest, not feeding on this garbage. This is a disgrace." Xander ignored the wolf, focusing instead on the textures and flavors of the meager meal. He had long since learned to find a quiet place in his mind, a sanctuary where he could retreat from Bane's constant rage and the endless monotony of his existence. It was a place where he could still remember the scent of his first mate, Shirley, a scent of wild lavender and fresh earth, a scent that now only existed in the haunted corners of his memory. After the meal, Xander was escorted to the infirmary. It was the day for his weekly "shot," and the thought of it made a familiar dread curdle in his gut. The infirmary was a clean, sterile oasis in the filth of the prison, but to Xander, it was a place of torment. Warden Barnes, a stoic and imposing man with an unsettling calm, was waiting for him. Barnes was the only person in the prison, outside of Xander himself, who knew the truth of his identity. He had been a part of the DeFoes’ plan from the beginning, a loyal pawn in their ruthless game. “Mahon,” Barnes said, his voice as flat and unfeeling as a gravestone. “We have to maintain our control, don’t we?” Xander didn’t respond. He simply walked over to the examination table and sat down, rolling up the sleeve of his rough prison shirt to reveal the scarred, tattooed skin underneath. A young, nervous doctor, a man Xander had never seen before, was holding a syringe. He was trembling slightly, his eyes wide with fear. "The pup is afraid of us," Bane whispered, a dark, amused chuckle in his voice. "Go on, scare him. A little show of teeth. See what he does." The doctor, following Barnes' silent instruction, plunged the needle into Xander’s arm. The wolfsbane, a cloudy, pale liquid, burned as it entered his bloodstream. It was a cold fire that coursed through his veins, an icy poison that went straight for the essence of his being. He could feel it immediately, a dulling of his senses, a weakening of his muscles, a profound lethargy settling over him. It was a feeling of being caged within a cage. "The poison," Bane roared, a wave of pure agony and rage washing over Xander. The wolf was a creature of nature and power, and the wolfsbane was a violation of everything he was. "You let him do this to us! He is killing us! Rip his throat out, Alexander! NOW!" Xander squeezed his eyes shut, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists on the table. He fought back, his mind a fortress against the storm of Bane's fury. The wolfsbane was winning, but he would not give in. He would not give Bane the satisfaction of tearing this room apart. “That’s enough, doctor,” Barnes said, his eyes fixed on Xander’s face, watching for any sign of a break. “You can go.” The doctor practically fled the room, leaving Barnes and Xander alone. The warden stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, a silent testament to his authority. “I heard about your little incident in the yard today,” Barnes said, his voice still low and emotionless. “A broken wrist, I believe. We can’t have you causing problems, Mahon. Remember who put you in here. We can always increase the dosage.” Xander opened his eyes, the blue a little dimmer now, the intensity muted by the drug. He looked at Barnes, his face a perfect mask of defiance and control. He knew what Barnes was doing. He was testing him, poking at the cage, waiting for the beast to react. He would not give him the satisfaction. "I will be no problem, Warden," Xander said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. It was the voice of a man who had not spoken in years, and it carried with it the weight of his ten-year imprisonment. Barnes smiled, a cold, humorless expression that never reached his eyes. "Good. We have a new doctor starting next week. She's young, and she's not accustomed to our… unique inmates. I'd hate for her to get hurt." The threat was clear. Xander's face remained impassive, but his mind recoiled. His wolf, Bane, was strangely silent, a low, unnerving presence. A new doctor. A new face to witness his slow, pathetic decay. Xander simply nodded, the wolfsbane making it difficult to even form a thought. He was dismissed, and he made his way back to his cell, the gray stone walls a familiar comfort and a profound curse. The single, bare bulb in the ceiling cast long, dancing shadows, and as the steel door clanged shut behind him, he was once again alone with his monster. Bane’s silence was a new kind of fear, a pregnant pause before a storm. Xander sat on his cot, his head in his hands, feeling the wolfsbane doing its work. The silence stretched on, and he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the silence was not a surrender. It was a plan.