The prison gym wasn't just a room—it was a proving ground, a slaughterhouse dressed up as a place for discipline. The moment Luca stepped through the heavy steel doors, the air hit him like a wall, thick with sweat, iron, and something darker—violence that had soaked into the walls over years of bloodshed. Rusted weights clanged against bars in uneven rhythms, chains rattled with every lift, and the low murmur of inmates talking, laughing, or taunting each other created a constant hum beneath it all. There were no rules here that mattered beyond strength. No laws, no fairness, no mercy. This was where debts were settled with broken bones, where pride was measured in scars, and where weakness didn't just get exposed—it got erased. Luca's eyes moved slowly, deliberately, scanning every corner, every face, every movement, committing it all to memory. He didn't belong here—not yet—but that didn't matter. He wasn't here to prove himself. He was here to build something far more dangerous than muscle.
Reyes stayed half a step behind him, his posture tense in a way Luca hadn't seen before, like a man walking through a minefield he knew too well. His voice dropped low, barely audible over the noise. "Bad idea, man. Velasquez ain't the type you just walk up to," he muttered, eyes flicking toward the back of the gym where the real predators gathered. There was no exaggeration in his tone, no dramatics—just cold, experienced truth. Men like Dante Velasquez didn't get approached. They got avoided. They got respected from a distance. Or they got feared.
But Luca didn't respond. He had already made the decision long before stepping into this place, and hesitation was a luxury he couldn't afford anymore. Every second wasted was another second closer to becoming just another forgotten body in Alcatraz's endless graveyard. His steps didn't slow, didn't falter. If anything, they became more deliberate, more focused, cutting through the chaos of the gym like a blade through flesh.
At the far end, surrounded by a subtle but unmistakable radius of space that no one dared to breach, stood Dante "The Hammer" Velasquez. Even among killers, he stood out. He was massive—6'4" at least, his body sculpted not by vanity but by years of brutal, relentless combat. Every muscle in his frame looked functional, honed for violence rather than show. His buzz cut gave his head a severe, almost military edge, and his face told a story of endless battles—nose crooked from too many breaks, jaw set with permanent tension, knuckles thick and scarred from years of smashing into bone and resistance. But it was his eyes that made people stay away. Dark, hollow, indifferent. The eyes of a man who had seen too much, done too much, and stopped caring about the consequences a long time ago.
He was working the punching bag like it owed him money. Each strike landed with terrifying precision, the sound echoing across the gym like controlled explosions. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation—just raw, efficient destruction. Every hit made the bag swing violently, chains rattling overhead, metal groaning under the strain. Inmates glanced his way occasionally, just long enough to remind themselves why they kept their distance, before returning to their own routines. No one interrupted Dante Velasquez. No one dared.
Luca walked straight toward him.
Reyes let out a quiet curse under his breath, his hands twitching slightly as if debating whether to grab Luca and drag him back. But he didn't. Maybe because he knew it wouldn't work. Maybe because some part of him wanted to see how this would play out. Or maybe because deep down, he understood that Luca wasn't the type to turn back once he set his sights on something.
Luca stopped a few feet away, just outside the arc of the swinging bag. He waited for a moment, watching the rhythm, the timing, the sheer controlled brutality of each punch. Then he spoke. "Dante Velasquez."
No reaction. Not even a flicker.
The punches kept coming, relentless, methodical, as if Luca's voice had been swallowed by the noise of the gym.
"I need you," Luca said, his tone steady, cutting through the air without raising in volume.
Reyes sucked in a sharp breath behind him. "Hell, you got a death wish, man…" he muttered, barely containing the tension in his voice.
For a moment, nothing changed. Then—suddenly—the rhythm stopped.
Dante's fist hovered inches from the bag before lowering slowly. The chains creaked as the bag swung lazily, the only movement in a space that had suddenly gone quiet in a way that felt unnatural. He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at Luca, his eyes dragging over him with visible disinterest. It wasn't hostility. It was worse. It was dismissal.
"Not interested," Dante said flatly, his voice deep, rough, and completely devoid of emotion. Then he turned back and resumed punching, as if the conversation had already ended.
Most people would've walked away.
Luca stepped closer.
"You don't even know what I'm offering," he said, voice tightening just slightly, enough to show resolve without desperation.
Dante didn't stop. "Don't need to," he replied between strikes, each word punctuated by another hit. "Whatever it is… I don't care."
Luca's jaw clenched, but he forced himself to stay calm, to think. This wasn't about pride. It wasn't about proving something in front of a crowd. This was about survival. About building something that could actually challenge the system choking them all. "You've spent years in this place," Luca continued, stepping even closer, close enough now that he could feel the air shift with each punch. "You know how it works. The fights, the bets, the way people get used up and thrown away. And you just… what? Accept it?"
That did it.
Dante threw one final punch, harder than the rest, sending the bag swinging violently, chains rattling like they were about to snap. Then he turned fully, his entire body facing Luca now, the sheer presence of him pressing down like gravity itself. "What's your point?" he asked, voice low, dangerous, carrying just enough interest to signal that Luca had crossed from annoyance into something worth acknowledging.
Luca didn't back down. Couldn't. "My point is," he said, meeting Dante's gaze head-on, "you're already in a cage. What if I told you there's a way out?"
The gym seemed to shrink in that moment. Conversations dimmed. Even the clanking of weights felt distant.
For the first time, something shifted in Dante's expression. Not belief. Not hope. But a flicker—something buried deep, something that hadn't been touched in a long time.
Reyes stiffened behind Luca. "Luca—" he started, but the warning came too late.
Dante cut him off without even looking at him. "You think you can escape Alcatraz?" he asked, his voice slower now, more deliberate, like he was tasting the words, weighing them.
Luca held his gaze, unwavering, unblinking. "I know I can."
That confidence hung in the air like a loaded weapon.
Dante studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly, dissecting him, measuring him. Then, slowly, a smirk formed—not friendly, not amused, but sharp, dangerous. "You want my help?" he said. "Prove to me you're worth it."
Luca's muscles tensed. He had expected this. In a place like this, nothing came free. Everything had to be earned. Paid for. Bled for. "How?" he asked, voice steady.
Dante cracked his knuckles, the sound loud and deliberate. "One punch."
Reyes swore immediately. "Luca, don't be an idiot. That's not a test, that's a fucking death sentence," he hissed, stepping forward slightly, but still not daring to intervene directly.
Luca didn't even glance back. "Fine," he said.
There was no buildup. No countdown.
Dante moved.
His fist shot forward like a freight train, fast and brutal, slamming straight into Luca's gut. The impact was catastrophic. Pain exploded through his body, sharp and overwhelming, knocking the air from his lungs in an instant. His vision blurred, his knees threatened to buckle, and for a split second, his body screamed at him to collapse, to give in, to fall.
But he didn't.
He staggered, coughed violently, tasted blood, but his feet stayed planted. His body shook, muscles screaming in protest, but he forced himself upright, forced himself to breathe, even as it felt like his ribs had been crushed inward.
Dante raised an eyebrow, just slightly. "Again."
The second punch came even faster.
This time, Luca saw it—but it didn't matter. There was no dodging, no blocking. The fist slammed into him with even greater force, and something inside him cracked. His vision went white for a second, his ears ringing, the world tilting dangerously as he fought to stay conscious. Pain radiated through his torso, raw and unforgiving, threatening to drag him to the floor.
But he stayed standing.
Barely.
Dante studied him now, properly this time, the indifference gone, replaced by something sharper. Curious. Assessing. "That all you got?" he asked.
Luca spat blood onto the floor, the metallic taste thick on his tongue. His chest burned with every breath, his entire body screaming at him to stop, to drop, to surrender.
Instead, he straightened.
And grinned.
"You tell me," he said.
Silence.
Real silence.
Then Dante smirked.
"You're either crazy," he said slowly, "or tougher than you look." He paused, eyes locking onto Luca's with a newfound weight. "Either way…"
A beat passed.
"I'm in."
Luca exhaled, slow and controlled, even as pain rippled through him with every breath. He had done it. Not by strength. Not by dominance. But by sheer refusal to break.
Behind him, Reyes let out a long breath, somewhere between relief and disbelief.
And just like that, the team gained its fist.
The first real weapon in a war that hadn't even begun yet.