The world believed James was a prisoner.
But from the moment he walked into Alcatraz—Tartarus to those who feared it—he was already the warden of chaos.
Two years before the riot, James had begun his game.
He never needed force to win loyalty.
He needed only words.
To the criminals, he offered vengeance.
To the broken, he offered hope twisted into violence.
To the greedy, he offered gold.
To the desperate, he offered meaning.
Every whisper he spoke in the shadows seeped into their hearts like venom.
When the top gang leaders clashed in secret, it was James who orchestrated their disputes.
He fed lies, spread rumors, and fanned flames until their hatred found a single direction: the guards, the system, the world itself.
And when they were at their weakest, he gave them the answer they never expected:
“Follow me, and your pain will have purpose.”
The guards were trickier.
But James had patience.
He began with the rookies—the ones who hated their pay, their bosses, their endless shift hours.
He planted seeds of resentment, mocking how the world outside spat on their sacrifices.
No.
You’re slaves to the warden.
To Interpol.
To the kings of the world who won’t even remember your names.”
Some resisted.
Some sneered.
But others… listened.
And once they listened, James owned them.
He offered bribes through his network, promises of power once he rose, even small acts of gratitude no one else gave them.
Slowly, cracks formed.
Slowly, guards who once held keys in defense… began turning them in his favor.
By the end of the first year, James had half the watchmen in his pocket.
By the end of the second, he had the rest looking the other way.
The riot wasn’t a spontaneous outbreak.
It was a symphony.
Every scream, every broken lock, every burning corridor—it had all been written in James’s mind long before the first punch was thrown.
And then came the day.
The day Interpol arrived.
The day Touya stepped into the jaws of Tartarus.
From his cell, still chained, James whispered to himself:
The guards he owned struck first, opening cells, tossing weapons into the hands of murderers and madmen.
Prisoners surged like a tide, their screams shaking the very foundations of the prison.
Chains rattled.
Fires lit.
Blood spilled.
And James?
He simply stood at the center of it all, his voice rising above the carnage like a conductor before his orchestra.
Back in the present.
Alcatraz was drowning in madness.
Every corner burned with violence.
The storm of blood and steel was unstoppable.
James stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chaos, thunder without the storm:
“Show Interpol the true nature of mankind!”
The prisoners roared.
A chorus of rage.
A hymn of destruction.
James threw his head back and laughed.
Not the laugh of joy.
Not the laugh of victory.
But the laugh of a man who had turned all of Tartarus into his stage.
A laugh that promised the world outside these walls had not seen the worst of him yet.