Here is the extra Chapter.
After Harleen left, the guards didn’t haul Jason back to his cell. Instead, they left him shackled in the interrogation room, the cold metal cuffs biting into his wrists. He frowned, his mind racing. ’Who the fuck wants to talk this late?’ The prison was on edge, the air thick with the anticipation of something big. He didn’t have to wait long for answers.
The door swung open, and in walked James Wesley, sharp as a blade in a tailored suit, polished shoes gleaming under the fluorescent lights, black-framed glasses perched on his nose. Jason’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise cutting through his usual cocky demeanor. Of all the people he’d expected—cops, feds, shrinks—Wesley was the last. But the second he saw him, Jason’s gut told him exactly why he was here.
Wesley sat across from him, his face unreadable, like a poker player holding a royal flush. Neither spoke, the silence heavy, charged with unspoken history. Their eyes locked, two predators sizing each other up. Finally, Wesley broke the tension, his voice smooth but laced with intent. "So, Jason, how’s life treating you in this shithole?"
Jason leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Not bad, man. Three meals a day, a bed to crash on, and a revolving door of assholes begging me to talk. No enemies trying to put a bullet in my head. It’s practically a fucking vacation."
Wesley chuckled, adjusting his glasses, but his eyes stayed sharp. "You’re too smart to play dumb, Jason. You know why I’m here."
Jason snorted, his tone dripping with disdain. "What, Fisk is too busy to drag his fat ass down here himself?"
"He’s got other priorities," Wesley said, his voice clipped.
"Oh, yeah? New York’s in fucking lockdown after that bombing. What’s that old bastard up to? Shaking down some new crew?"
"Personal business," Wesley replied, his expression tightening. "Not my place to ask."
"Personal, huh?" Jason’s eyes lit up, leaning forward as much as his cuffs allowed. "What, he’s chasing tail again? He scored a new girlfriend? Guy or girl? Black, white, what’s the deal?"
Wesley coughed, clearly uncomfortable, his polished facade cracking. "Maybe. Look, stop fishing, Jason. You’re wasting your breath. I’m here on Fisk’s orders to make a deal."
"A deal?" Jason laughed, cold and mocking. "I’m rotting in this hellhole, Wesley. What’s a fucking mob boss gonna offer me? A better cell? Extra pudding?"
Wesley’s eyes gleamed, sensing an opening. "So you admit it exists. The secret."
Jason’s grin didn’t falter, but his mind raced. "I’m a walking mystery, man. Got a big one in my pants, too. Which secret are you talking about?"
"Don’t play coy," Wesley snapped, leaning forward. "The one that lets you juice up your strength, your speed, your fighting skills overnight. Fisk knows it’s real. He’s obsessed. A guy like him, a brawler who’s clawed his way to the top, he gets it—nobody gets that good that fast without a trick."
Jason’s smirk widened. He knew exactly what Wesley meant—the system, the points, the ability to rewrite his own limits. But he wasn’t about to hand that over. "Alright, let’s say it exists. What’s Fisk offering?"
"We can—" Wesley started, but Jason cut him off, his voice sharp.
"Stop right there. Don’t give me that ’better prison conditions’ bullshit. Every suit who walks through that door dangles the same tired carrot—steak dinners, a softer bed, all that crap. I’m sick of hearing it. If I spill a single secret, I could be eating lobster every night. So come on, Wesley, give me something worth a damn."
Wesley rubbed his temples, frustration etching lines into his face. He’d known this wouldn’t be easy, but Jason was a whole new level of infuriating. Prison hadn’t dulled his edge—it had sharpened it, made him meaner, cagier, a fucking nightmare to negotiate with.
---
Prison Office Building, Dining Room
Across the prison, in a dimly lit room, a three-meter-long table was set for a king. Candles flickered, casting warm shadows over a spread of exotic dishes that screamed money and effort. Daniel stood proudly, gesturing to each plate as he introduced them to Harleen, who sat across from him, her eyes sparkling with feigned delight.
"Japanese seared wagyu," He said, pointing to a sizzling cut of beef. "Australian M12 sirloin, French escargot and foie gras with caviar, Russian smoked sausage, New Zealand oysters, and—get this—Chinese mapo tofu, spicy as hell." He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "I scoured every corner of New York for this. Didn’t know what you liked, so I got the best from everywhere."
Harleen pressed her hands together, her smile radiant, almost too perfect. "Daniel, this is incredible. You went all out."
He waved off her praise, but his chest puffed up. "Hold off on the thanks. The star of the show’s coming up." He reached under the table, pulling out a dusty bottle with reverence. "1982 Lafite Rothschild. Been saving this for years. Never had the right occasion—until now."
He popped the cork with a flourish, pouring two glasses of deep red wine, the aroma rich and heady. "Cheers," He said, raising his glass.
"Cheers," Harleen echoed, her smile never wavering as their glasses clinked.
The meal stretched on, plates cleared, glasses refilled. Harleen played her part masterfully, encouraging Daniel to drink, her every gesture calculated to keep him pouring. By the time the Lafite was gone, their cheeks were flushed, but Harleen’s buzz was an act—her mind sharp, her eyes flicking to her watch. Daniel, on the other hand, was starting to slur, his grin sloppy.
"More wine?" Harleen asked, tilting her empty glass with a pout.
Daniel laughed, his ego soaring. ’She’s drunk. Tonight’s the night.’ "Got plenty more where that came from," He said, stumbling to his office and returning with three bottles of premium whiskey. His plan was clear: get her wasted, get her vulnerable.
They kept drinking, the whiskey burning their throats, pushing them to the edge. Harleen glanced at her watch again: 9:35 p.m. Twenty-five minutes until the breakout. Time to move.
She stood, swaying slightly for effect, and staggered toward the door. Daniel lurched to his feet, catching her arm. "Whoa, Harleen, you’re plastered. Let me get you home."
"Nah, I’m fine," She slurred, her voice playful but firm. "Never seen the prison at night. Show me around, big guy."
Daniel’s foggy brain didn’t argue. "Anything you want, babe."
They stumbled through the halls, leaning on each other, until they reached the control room. Harleen pointed at the reinforced steel door, her voice coy. "I’m a doctor, Danny. Can’t let the inmates see me like this. Let’s check out the control room instead."
Daniel, too drunk to think straight, nodded and knocked. The door, designed to thwart riots, only opened from the inside. A guard cracked it open, his eyes widening at the sight of his plastered boss. "Warden? What’s going on?"
"Dr. Quinzel’s writing a paper," Daniel mumbled, waving a hand. "Gonna show her the setup."
The seven night-shift guards exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing as Daniel led Harleen inside. The control room was a fortress of screens and switches, a nerve center for the prison. "This big-ass monitor," Daniel bragged, gesturing to a wall of screens, "Splits into fifty feeds, cycling every twenty seconds. Covers every inch of this place—inside and out."
Harleen’s eyes, no longer hazy, drank in every detail, memorizing the layout. "What do these buttons do, Danny?" She asked, her voice dripping with curiosity.
He hiccuped, eager to impress. "These open the cell doors for yard time. Those over there? They control the main gates. If a riot breaks out, you lock down a section, hit this button, and boom—tear gas sprays from the ceiling, knocks ’em out."
She pointed to another panel, playing the eager student. "And this one?"
Daniel, oblivious, spilled everything, explaining every switch, every function. The guards watched, uncomfortable but silent. Calling out the boss in front of his crush? Career suicide.
Harleen nodded, her mind a steel trap, cataloging every detail. "Got it," She said, her voice soft but firm. As Daniel droned on, she slipped between two guards, her hands brushing their holsters, fingers itching for the cold steel of a pistol.
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