Wesley’s instincts screamed that Jason’s cryptic talk of "reputation" was tied to the secret of his unnatural strength, his impossible skills. He leaned forward, his voice urgent, almost desperate. "Jason, stop fucking around. What’s this ’reputation’ bullshit? Spill it!"
Before Jason could respond, the prison’s alarms erupted, a deafening wail that shook the walls. Wesley’s head whipped around, his polished facade cracking as panic set in. "What the hell’s going on? Why’s the alarm going off?"
Jason’s lips curled into a faint, predatory smile. He opened his palm, revealing three small keys, their metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. His fingers moved with practiced ease, unlocking the cuffs on his wrists.
Clang!
The shackles hit the floor, the sound sharp and final. He rubbed his bruised wrists, the purple marks a testament to Daniel’s cruelty, his eyes never leaving Wesley.
Wesley stumbled to his feet, his face pale, realization dawning. "You’re breaking out," He whispered, his voice trembling. He bolted for the door, desperate to escape the monster he’d underestimated.
Jason’s smirk turned cold. With a flick of his wrist, he launched one of the keys like a dart. It sliced through Wesley’s palm, blood spraying as he screamed, collapsing to his knees just short of the door. "Fuck!" He howled, clutching his mangled hand.
Jason stood, his movements deliberate, almost leisurely. "We weren’t done talking, Wesley. Where’s the rush?"
He unlocked the cuffs on his neck and ankles, each click a step closer to freedom. Stalking toward Wesley, his voice was ice-cold. "Where’s Fisk? What’s that fat fuck been up to?"
Wesley’s face twisted in pain and defiance, blood dripping onto the floor. "I’m Fisk’s right hand. I’d rather die than betray him."
Jason chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. "Loyalty like that? It almost makes me tear up." He grabbed Wesley’s collar, yanking him up like a rag doll.
Wesley’s eyes widened, panic flooding his voice. "Jason, you kill me, Fisk will hunt you to the ends of the fucking earth!"
Jason’s grin was pure malice. "Kill you? Nah, I’m not that merciful. I’m gonna hurt you—bad. Everything Fisk did to me? I’m carving it into you, piece by piece."
He seized Wesley’s arm, twisting it backward with a savage jerk.
Crack!
The elbow snapped, the sound drowned out by Wesley’s blood-curdling scream. Jason slammed him against the door, pinning him with one hand, and drove his fist into Wesley’s gut.
Crunch.
Ribs shattered under the blow, Wesley’s gasps turning to whimpers.
Jason’s breath came heavy, his eyes burning with rage. "We’re just getting started." He grabbed Wesley’s shoulders, driving his knee into his chest—once, twice, three times. Each impact echoed with the dull thud of breaking bones. With a final heave, Jason hoisted Wesley overhead and hurled him onto the interrogation table. The wood splintered, collapsing in two under the impact.
Wesley lay in the wreckage, barely conscious, his body a broken mess. Jason crouched beside him, his voice low and mocking. "I know my amateur torture won’t break you. But this prison’s full of talent. My cellmate? He’s a fucking artist at making people talk—without killing them. Let’s see how tough your loyalty is then."
He kicked open the door, dragging Wesley by the collar like a slaughtered animal. The prison was a warzone—corpses of guards and inmates littered the halls, blood pooling on the concrete, the air thick with the stench of death and gunpowder. Long Island housed over 300 inmates, roughly equal to the number of guards inside. The guards had rifles and armor, but the prisoners were hardened killers, forged in blood long before their incarceration. It was a brutal, even match, and the carnage was apocalyptic.
Jason snatched a pistol from a dead guard, its grip slick with blood, and made his way toward Buffalo Bill’s cell. The fifth floor, home to the prison’s most dangerous inmates, was a slaughterhouse. Inmates had turned the tables, overwhelming the guards. Jason passed scenes of depravity—guards beaten to pulp, one with his throat torn out by an inmate’s teeth, blood dripping from the prisoner’s grinning mouth as he laughed maniacally. In a dark corner, a group of inmates pinned a female guard, her screams echoing as they tore at her uniform, their cruelty unrestrained. She begged for help, but no one came.
Jason’s lips twisted into a cruel smile as he walked past, ignoring her cries. These guards had tortured inmates for years—fuck their suffering. He wasn’t some bleeding-heart hero; he was a predator, and the guards’ pain was just background noise. If he’d been the one doling out punishment, they’d be begging for death by now.
Nearing Bill’s cell, Jason heard screams. Inside, a guard was bound, his shirt ripped open, his waist a mess of blistered, bloody flesh. Bill, grinning like a kid with a new toy, held a lighter, methodically burning the guard’s skin. The guard’s cries grew louder, and Bill’s smile only widened, relishing the pain like a twisted artist.
Bill glanced up, spotting Jason. "Long Island’s chewed up dozens of escapees every year, but nobody’s ever pulled it off. You fucking did it, man."
Jason stayed silent, waiting.
Bill continued, his voice casual but sharp. "These idiots think they’re free, but the cops’ll hunt them down in days. Unless they’ve got a big player backing them. You’ve got insiders, mercs, a whole damn operation. You’re the real deal. So, what do you say? Let me in. I’m a lone wolf—no baggage, no bullshit."
Jason dragged Wesley’s limp body into the cell, dropping him like a sack of meat. "I don’t keep dead weight. Prove you’re worth it. Crack this fucker’s mouth open, get me answers."
Bill eyed Wesley’s broken form, his grin widening. "Easy. Give me ten minutes."
Jason nodded, turning away. The system had pinged him—John Wick was within 100 meters, locked somewhere on the fifth floor. A professional killer like Wick? He’d be up here with the worst of the worst.
It didn’t take long to find him. Medium-length black hair, lean build, a chiseled face framed by a neatly trimmed beard. John Wick lay on his bunk, calm as a fucking monk, while the prison burned around him. "You’re a weird one," Jason said, leaning against the bars. "Everyone else is either running or ripping guards apart, and you’re just chilling like it’s a Sunday afternoon."
Wick opened one eye, glancing at Jason, then closed it again. "Hundreds of guards out there, plus armored cars and a fucking tank. Nobody’s getting out."
Jason laughed, sharp and mocking. "The great John Wick, king of the hitmen, and you’re too chickenshit to even try? No balls to fight for it?"
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