The guard led them down a narrow corridor branching left from the one that bled toward the arena. Jason walked in silence, his eyes still raw from the night before, lids heavy, vision faintly blurred at the edges. Every flicker of the ceiling lamps scraped against his tired nerves.

  “You on duty with Greg today, Tom?” Vincent’s easy voice drifted ahead, pulling Jason’s gaze back to the men in front of him.

  “Yes,” the guard answered flatly. “Same roster for the next couple of days.”

  “So… I should probably stay out of Hall B today then,” Vincent said with a half-smile, voice tinged with mock caution. “Greg doesn’t like me cleaning his office when he’s in it.”

  “Yeah,” Tom muttered, smirking despite himself. “Probably not.”

  Jason blinked at that exchange. He’s chatting with guards like they’re neighbors in the market…

  They passed under a patch of buzzing lights and turned through two sharp corners before the corridor widened into an open hall.

  Tables stretched across the center, most of them crowded with people in rags or patched uniforms. On the left, a line of booths sat behind dirty panes of glass, officers hunched over paperwork, their quills scratching without pause as they bartered with the desperate on the other side. On the far wall, a broad kitchen churned with movement — steam, clanging pans, the bark of cooks working under pressure. A side door opened onto yet another corridor, and the scent of boiled broth seeped into the hall.

  But what stole Jason’s breath was the right side of the room.

  A window, huge and dimly tinted, revealed the outside. For the first time in days, Jason saw beyond stone and steel.

  He drifted away from Vincent’s side, ignoring the casual chatter that followed him.

  The glass opened onto the spaceport’s skin: scaffolds of metal, branching walkways, and, beyond them, the curve of the dusty planet below. A star — swollen, yellow-orange — crested its horizon, light spilling like molten fire. In the glow, he could see other wings of the prison, their own windows shining faintly like watching eyes.

  Vincent came up beside him. His voice was softer this time. “They’re the other classes of prisoners.”

  Jason turned, brow furrowed. “Other classes?”

  “Yeah. Left wing is Lord Veyrn’s fighters. Right wing is the others — mercenaries and slaves brought in by different merchants.”

  Jason leaned closer to the glass, squinting. Movement flickered in the distance. Figures were pacing behind those other windows, blurred by distance but recognizable by shape. Some of them looked familiar — bruised men and women from the arena. And one in particular: the towering blue-skinned figure cutting across the corridor.

  Tahuuk.

  Jason froze.

  As if sensing the weight of his stare, Tahuuk paused, his head tilting until their eyes met through the glass. The alien warrior gave the slightest smile and dipped his head in recognition. But the smile faltered quickly when he caught sight of Jason’s bloodshot eyes.

  Vincent followed his gaze. “You know him?”

  “Yeah,” Jason said quietly. “We were paired in the first fight.”

  “That explains a lot.” Vincent’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, as if he’d solved a puzzle. “That’s why you survived.”

  Jason’s chest tightened. should i be telling him this much… He talks to guards like friends. What if telling him too much backfires later on?

  “Come on.” Vincent slipped an arm loosely around Jason’s shoulders, steering him away from the glass. “Let me show you how this place actually works.”

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  Tahuuk’s figure lingered for a moment longer in the corner of Jason’s eye before turning away, swallowed by the corridor.

  Vincent led Jason past the kitchen, where two workers glanced up briefly at them — a gaunt woman and a heavyset man, sweat clinging to their brows. Vincent tipped his head.

  “That’s Dalia and Remy. They run the kitchen. If you’ve got tokens, you can buy a real meal here. Otherwise… you get what they throw at you.”

  The pair nodded in vague acknowledgment before returning to their frantic chopping and stirring.

  “They sometimes take helpers,” Vincent added in a hushed tone. “But most new guys don’t want that. The arena’s faster for earning tokens — if you survive.”

  Jason’s gaze shifted to the booths, where the true heart of the room pulsed. Ragged prisoners argued through glass with stone-faced officers. Tokens slid across counters. Requests were scribbled down. Most left with nothing.

  “Here’s where you trade tokens for gear or scraps,” Vincent explained. “But you’ve gotta haggle, or they’ll rob you blind. Officers name their own prices. Depends on who you are… or what you’re worth to them.”

  Jason’s jaw tightened as he watched one prisoner beg for bread, only to be waved away. Another succeeded, taking a single crust and eating it slowly, reverently, as if it were gold.

  “This is also where you can ask for a job,” Vincent went on. “Most pay one token a week. Better than nothing if you can’t fight.”

  Jason straightened. “What do I need to show to get one?” His voice held more steel than before.

  Vincent blinked, surprised by the shift in tone. Jason’s eyes were clearing; there was a spark in them now, something stubborn.

  “Well, depends on the job. And the officer.”

  “I want maintenance,” Jason said firmly. “I can do that. Tools, repairs — I know my way around.”

  Vincent tilted his head, skeptical but impressed. “Three tokens minimum to get started. You don’t have that yet.”

  Jason frowned. “Any way I can start with less?”

  Vincent studied him for a beat, then sighed. “Let’s see what I can do. Line up at the middle booth. I know that officer.”

  Of course you do, Jason thought, shaking his head as they joined the queue.

  The line shuffled forward. Some prisoners were dismissed without a word, others haggled bitterly over scraps — a candle stub, a blanket. By the time Jason stepped up, Vincent was already leaning casually against the counter.

  “Hey, Frank,” Vincent said smoothly. “Got those stains out of your carpet, didn’t I?”

  The officer barely looked up. “Yeah. You did.”

  “Told you I could,” Vincent muttered, satisfied.

  “What do you want?”

  “Not for me. For him.” Vincent gestured at Jason. “He wants a job.”

  The officer finally turned his gaze to Jason, unimpressed. “What kind?”

  “Maintenance, sir.”

  “Maintenance?” A snort. “You?”

  Jason straightened his shoulders. “Yes, sir. I can handle tools.”

  The officer’s skeptical stare lingered, but after a moment he rummaged around for a broken clock from the desk. “Fix this.”

  Jason took the clock carefully, running his thumb along its edge. The casing was ornate but cracked. He flipped it open with practiced hands, memory flashing back to Ironwood — Friederick’s workshop, grease on his fingers, the old man’s calm voice guiding him.

  A chipped gear rattled loose, clinking against the counter. Jason pinched it between thumb and forefinger. “This is the problem. If I reattach it, it’ll work.”

  The officer raised a brow. Vincent grinned.

  Jason’s fingers worked deftly, aligning the pieces, slotting the gear back in. With a final turn of the screw, the clock ticked once more.

  The officer leaned back with a grunt. “Qualified. Three tokens. Start tomorrow.”

  Jason’s heart sank. He only had one.

  Vincent leaned in. “Make it two.”

  The officer’s expression hardened. “Three.”

  “Come on, Frank.” Vincent’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll tell you how to get rid of those other stains.”

  The officer hesitated, then clicked his tongue. “Fine. Two. But he still fights for it. Arena contribution, same as the rest.”

  Jason exhaled slowly. Two is better than three.

  “Number 117,” the officer said, scribbling on a slip. “Give that when you pay.” He waved them away.

  Vincent smirked. “See? Haggle, or you’ll get nothing here.”

  They settled at a table afterward. Jason still looked unsettled. “Why would cleaning stains be worth a token?”

  Vincent’s smirk faded. His voice was quieter now. “Because they’re not wine stains. Or dirt. They’re blood. This place runs on blood.”

  A chill rippled through Jason. His fingers shook against the table. For a heartbeat, Ironwood’s burning streets flashed in his mind — Lord Veyrn’s grin, the screams.

  “You good?” Vincent asked carefully.

  Jason nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Fine.”

  But as Vincent leaned back and greeted another passerby with a familiar handshake, Jason noticed something. The handshake lingered, subtle movements in their arms. When Vincent pulled away, a small bar of soap sat in his palm.

  Jason blinked. That’s how he does it.

  Vincent caught his look and shrugged. “Trade. Did him a favor once, he owed me. You learn fast here.”

  Jason stared at the soap, realization dawning. He doesn’t need to fight. He survives by favors. By secrets.

  The thought lingered as guards began herding them back toward the cells.

  The orange light hummed in their cell once more. Jason lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. Vincent tucked the soap into a hidden stash, his movements smooth, practiced.

  Jason turned to him. “So… you can smuggle things?”

  Vincent gave a small grin. “Smuggle, trade, favor — call it what you want. You want something, you’ve gotta give something. That’s the condition.”

  Jason closed his eyes. The word stuck. Condition.

  “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  But as he rolled onto his side, token still clenched in his hand, he knew one thing for certain: in this place, nothing came free. Not trust. Not survival. Not even friendship.