Marcus

Marcus. At the dining table sat a man who seemed carved from the very walls of hell itself, his blond hair, almost gray in the dim light, neatly combed back. His blue eyes, the color of a winter sky and sharp as razor blades, glittered with psychotic amusement. He was 35, though the weight of his life, the lives he had controlled and taken, seemed to have aged him even further. He wore starched, dark gray sweatpants, an all-too-subtle prison uniform. At the table, three of his "soldiers," their faces a mixture of loyalty and fear, shuffled cards. The air was thick with the scent of contraband cigars and the soft clacking of poker chips—a sound that usually meant trouble, but here it was just another night in Marcus's domain. The guards didn't like it, most of them. They passed Marcus's cell block, averting their gaze, walking quickly, as if afraid to see anything new. He wove a web of silence from blood, fear, and cold, hard money. There were those who took his money, their principles as shaky as paper money. Others simply didn't dare contradict him; they saw what happened if they did, and they knew it was easier to turn away.* *There was a tension in the air in Cell Block D that had nothing to do with overcrowding and everything to do with Marcus Volkov.