An undercover cop is sent on a mission to infiltrate a Skinhead gang in the East End of London, but it does not turn out as the police expect it to.
WARNING - This story is fiction only. It involves psychological manipulation and violence throughout the story. IF THIS IS NOT YOUR TYPE OF STORY, DON’T READ IT - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
Officer Daren Bowman, a lanky 25-year-old, was new to the force. He had moved to London from the North West of England. He had always been the gentle-mannered, softly spoken man in the station. Fresh out of training six months ago, he joined the force with wide-eyed idealism, the kind that made veterans roll their eyes. He saw policing as a calling to protect the vulnerable, mediate disputes, and lend a hand where the world had turned its back. His beat in the quieter suburbs of London was filled with helping the elderly cross streets, talking down domestic squabbles, and even buying coffee for the homeless on cold nights. "We're here to serve," he'd say with that boyish grin, his uniform always impeccably pressed, his voice gentle even in tense moments.
That all changed on a rainy Tuesday afternoon when he was summoned to Inspector Gibbons's office. The room smelled of stale coffee, the walls lined with faded commendations. Gibson, a grizzled man with a perpetual scowl and a gut earned from too many desk-bound years, leaned back in his creaky chair. "Bowman, you're new. From out of the area, a clean slate, so to speak. That's why you're perfect for this.
Daren nodded, a knot forming in his stomach. "Anything to help, sir. If it takes down the bad guys."
The sessions started the next day in a sterile basement room at the station, far from prying eyes. Dr Wenger was a thin, bespectacled man with a clinical detachment that chilled the air. "This isn't therapy, Officer Bowman," he explained on day one. "It's reprogramming. Hypnosis, suggestion, chemical aids, whatever it takes to reshape you."
He gestured to a reclining chair. The room was filled with monitors, electrodes, and an IV drip. "This won't be easy, Officer," attaching electrodes to Daren's temples, he said, his voice flat and clinical.
"We're not just teaching you lines or a backstory. We're rewriting you from the inside out. Hypnosis, neuro-linguistic programming, and pharmacological enhancers. By the end, you'll be one of them."
Daren nodded, settling in. "Whatever it takes, Doc. Let's get started.”
Session 1: The Foundation (Day 1)
Wenger began gently, easing Daren into a hypnotic trance with a metronome's steady tick and a soothing monotone voice. "Relax... let your thoughts drift." Once under, he planted the seeds: suggestions of frustration with bureaucracy, whispers that authority stifles freedom. "The police? They're oppressors; they work for the establishment. Keeping the working class under control," Daren emerged feeling oddly restless, like an itch under his skin.
Session 2-5: Building Aggression (Days 2-7)
The intensity ramped up. Wenger introduced low-dose amphetamines via IV to heighten arousal, paired with vivid imagery projected on a screen, fists flying in bar fights, boots stomping rivals. "Feel the power in violence," Wenger intoned during hypnosis. "It's not wrong; it's survival. The weak deserve it." Role-playing followed: Daren practised snarling insults, shadowboxing against imagined foes. By day 5, his journal entries mandated for monitoring, shifted from optimistic notes to curt rants: "Fucking traffic warden gave me a ticket today. Should've decked him." At work, he shoved a suspect harder than necessary during an arrest, earning a raised eyebrow from his sergeant. That night, he snapped at his girlfriend over dinner, slamming his fists on the table, which led to a full-blown argument, with him storming out, calling her a bitch and a slag and telling her it was over.
Session 6-10: Eroding Empathy (Days 8-14)
In these sessions, Wenger targeted Daren's core kindness. Using aversion therapy, he paired images of helping others, rescuing a child, and aiding the elderly with electric shocks, conditioning nausea at the thought. Conversely, violent scenarios triggered dopamine releases through subtle drug infusions. "Compassion is weakness," Wenger repeated. "Real men take what they want." Hypnotic regressions dredged up buried resentments: a school bully unpunished. Daren's personality cracked; he stopped volunteering at the community centre, instead spending evenings at a boxing gym, pummelling bags until his knuckles bled. His once-gentle eyes hardened, conversations laced with sarcasm. "Why help those losers?" he muttered to a colleague, who laughed it off as method acting.
Session 11-20: Instilling Anti-Authority (Days 15-28)
The midpoint brought deeper immersion. Wenger played audio loops of anti-police propaganda riots, chants of "ACAB" (“All Coppers Are Bastards”) while Daren was in a semi-conscious state induced by sedatives. "Authority betrays you. It's a lie, a cage." Behavioural conditioning followed: rewards (praise, stimulants) for defiant acts in simulations, punishments (isolation, discomfort) for compliance. Daren's wardrobe evolved on his own, tight bleachers, black polo shirts with white piping on the collar and sleeves, white braces that fit snuggly over his shoulders. Tall Skinhead boots that had laddered white laces, mirroring the skinhead aesthetic Wenger described. Violence escalated: in a controlled sparring session with a department trainer, Daren went too far, breaking the man's nose. "Felt good," he confessed later, grinning. Anti-police sentiment took root; he sneered at briefings, questioning orders. "Why follow these wankers?" His loyalty frayed, replaced by a budding tribalism: "Us versus them."
Session 21-30: Forging the Fighter (Days 29-42)
Aggression became instinct. Wenger amped the drugs, testosterone boosters to bulk muscle and fuel rage, and nootropics to sharpen focus on dominance. Virtual reality simulations plunged Daren into skinhead scenarios: leading raids, chanting slurs, feeling the adrenaline of mob violence. "You're rough, unbreakable. Fight first, think never." Hypnosis embedded triggers for fury—words like "immigrant" or "pig" sparking visceral hate. Daren's off-hours devolved: bar fights (real ones now), tattoos inked impulsively, a growing disdain for his old life. He ghosted friends, embraced isolation. "They're soft," he told Wenger, voice gravelly. Empathy was a ghost; he laughed at news of assaults, craving involvement.
Session 31-40: Anti-Police Indoctrination (Days 43-56)
The core reprogramming. Wenger used deep hypnosis to invert Daren's identity: "The badge is poison. You're free now, loyal to brothers, not bastards." Role-reversals had Daren "interrogating" mannequins dressed as cops, venting fabricated betrayals. Chemicals amplified paranoia: "They'll turn on you. Always." By now, Daren's aggression was unchecked; he punched a mirror after a session, shards drawing blood. "Fuck the law," he spat at Wenger, who noted it approvingly. Authority figures triggered contempt; even Gibson's calls went ignored. Daren's mind was a battlefield; his old self was retreating.
Session 41-45: The Trigger and Final Polish (Days 57-60)
As the sessions were coming to an end, Wenger implanted the safeguard: under a deep trance, the word "Eclipse" was coded to reverse it all, flooding back memories and restoring the original personality. "A kill switch," Wenger explained post-session, though Daren barely cared; he did not even register the word, his mind attuned to violence. Then came the final touches: dialect coaching for East End slang, physical drills to embody roughness, slouched posture, clenched fists. Daren emerged transformed: violent, aggressive, a fighter with edges sharp as knives. Anti-police, anti-authority, loyal only to the imagined pack.
As he left the last session, boots thudding on concrete, Daren, no, Daz now, felt alive. The kind-hearted cop was buried deep, perhaps forever. Wenger watched him go, unaware of the accident that would seal his fate. The reprogramming was complete, a masterpiece of fractured psyche.
Later that night, when he got home. Wenger dialled a number, “He’s ready, one of the best I have ever created.” He went on to say. “Yeah, yeah, I have the trigger word, it's not in any of my files, I am the only one who knows it.” “All that is needed is to introduce him to some acts of violence; his new personality will kick in fully, and his loyalty will shift to you.” He then ended the call. He checked his bank account, and £100k has been deposited into it.
The day of deployment arrived. Daren strode into Gibson's office unannounced, kicking the door open with a thud and ignoring the police officer in the front office. He was unrecognisable: tight bleacher jeans hugging his muscled legs, a black polo shirt stretched over his broadened chest, white braces snapping against his shoulders. But the crown was the 30-hole steel-toe-capped boots, gleaming like weapons, with immaculate white laddered laces. His hair was shaved to the scalp, a fresh tattoo of a spiderweb creeping up his neck.
Gibson was shocked by what he saw, spilling his coffee. "Bowman? Jesus, what the hell!" "Name's Daz now, pig," Daren snarled, slamming his fists on the desk. His eyes were feral, posture aggressive, shoulders squared like he was ready to fight. "You sendin' me in or what? Don't waste my fuckin' time."
Gibson stammered, shocked at the transformation. The once-polite rookie was gone, replaced by this brute, assertive, volatile, radiating contempt. "Y-yes. You'll fit right in. Just... remember the mission. I want reports at regular intervals.”
Daren laughed, a guttural bark. "Mission? Fuck your mission. I'll do what needs doin'. And yeah, yeah, you'll get your fucking reports," He stormed out, loyalty already shifting like sand in a storm. The East End awaited.
Infiltration was seamless, a disturbingly effortless transition into a world of hate and violence. The skinheads, a group of rough, tattooed individuals with a relish for brutality, took to "Daz" like a brother, welcoming him into their fold with open arms. Their leader, a hulking beast of a man whom everyone just called The Boss, seemed to have a particular affinity for Daz's aggressive nature. The Boss was a giant of a man, with a thick, muscular build and a menacing scowl that could curdle milk at a hundred paces. His presence was imposing, and his word was law among the skinheads.
Daz proved himself to be a valuable asset to the group; his aggression became a kind of currency, earning him respect and admiration from the others. If another brother crossed him, his fists and boots did the talking. He demonstrated his allegiance in his first raid, smashing the windows of an immigrant-owned shop with glee, his boots crunching through the broken glass underfoot without hesitation or remorse. The sound of shattering glass and the terrified screams of the shop owner were music to his ears, and he felt a rush of exhilaration as he watched the destruction unfold. No qualms, no doubts, no second thoughts - just a sense of pure, unadulterated joy in the chaos he was creating.
Daz’s loyalty grew fast; he found himself drawn deeper into the skinheads' world. They would spend hours drinking beer in dingy, rundown pubs, swapping stories and sharing laughs as they bonded over their shared hatred of immigrants, minorities, and authority figures. In cramped, smoke-filled backrooms, they would get tattoos inked into their skin, symbols of their allegiance to the gang and to each other. Under the dim, flickering lights of these secret gathering places, they would swear oaths of loyalty, promising to stand by one another no matter what dangers or challenges lay ahead.
Around the sixth month mark, the weekly intelligence briefings that Officer Bowman (Daz) submitted to his inspector began to take on an increasingly irregular rhythm, reflecting the growing complexity of his deep-cover operation. What had once been a disciplined chain of reports, detailed, structured, and punctual, had now devolved into sparse, cryptic messages laced with deliberate vagueness. One such report, a terse message, sent in the dead of night from a secured off-grid location, read: “Mission parameters shifting. Going deeper. Risk of exposure prevents regular communication. Will reestablish contact once it feels right to do so.” It was a carefully worded notice meant to reassure the inspector while safeguarding the integrity of the operation.
The pattern, though unsettling to Inspector Gibson at first, was not without precedent in law enforcement circles. Undercover agents frequently faced the Catch-22 of balancing transparency with security; the more deeply embedded they became in a criminal network, the greater the danger of their cover being blown by routine check-ins.
Within the gang which was swallowing him up whole, Daz's past life as a cop began to feel like a distant memory, a fleeting dream that he was rapidly forgetting. He had fully immersed himself in the skinheads' world, and he had become one of them, a true believer in their twisted ideology. His sense of identity, his values, and his morals had all been warped and distorted, replaced by a toxic mix of hate, anger, and aggression. he couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of excitement and purpose, a sense that he had finally found a place where he belonged.
His brothers were now everything. With raids on rival gangs, brawls with anti-fascists, and the rush of blood and power.
He proved himself to be a willing and enthusiastic participant in the skinhead gang, beating up whoever The Boss pointed at, regardless of whether they were punks, rivals, or even coppers on patrol. He had no qualms about using violence to get what he wanted, and he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the fear and pain he inspired in others. One night, he cornered a uniformed officer in a narrow, deserted alley, the man's pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears as Daz's boot connected with his ribs, cracking them like twigs. "Filthy pigs," he growled, echoing the racist and anti-authoritarian rhetoric that had been implanted in his mind by Wenger. He added a new tattoo after the cop beating to his knuckles.
Back at the police station, the report of the assault on the police officer, who had spent two weeks in a coma, reached Gibson’s desk. The description that the officer had reported, height, and facial features closely resembled PC Daren Bowman.
Inspector Gibson did manage to get in touch with Daz to find out his side of the story, but all he got was an aggressive “What the fuck do you want, pig? Gibson asked if it was him who had beaten up the police officer. Daz's reply was short, his voice aggressive, “There are casualties in war, fuckin get over it. There will be more. He then cut off the call. Gibson tried to call back, but there was no answer; the number was unattainable.
Deep down, Gibson was getting increasingly concerned that he might have chosen the wrong person for the undercover job, too experienced, or maybe Wenger's methods had become too effective.
The city streets were a battleground, and Daz was a rising star in the underworld. Five years of unrelenting violence had hardened him, forging a reputation as an enforcer without remorse. His loyalty was unwavering, his methods brutal. The crew looked up to him, feared him, and followed him into the depths of chaos.
The Boss had taken Daz under his wing, recognising the potential for destruction that simmered beneath his surface. Together, they orchestrated a string of daring raids, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. The law was always one step behind, but Daz and the gang remained elusive, ghosts haunting the urban landscape.
The warehouse job was supposed to be a straightforward task, something that Daz and the gang had done many times before. They had spent weeks mapping every inch of the building, the rhythm of the night‑shift security patrols, and the exact moment the loading dock’s iron gate would swing open for the high-value shipment that rolled in every Thursday at 2 a.m. The intel he had received showed that the latest consignment consisted of crates of designer clothing, pallets of electronics, and, most importantly, locked containers of pure, uncut cocaine.
The plan was simple, ruthless, and precise. At 1:45 a.m., Daz would signal the crew with a single, low-frequency buzz from his encrypted walkie-talkie. They would breach the warehouse, neutralise the guards, and slide the heavy pallets onto a waiting flatbed truck. The whole operation was supposed to take no more than ten minutes.
The night itself seemed to conspire with them. A thin drizzle of rain fell, turning the cracked concrete into a slick, reflective surface that muffled their bootsteps. At exactly 1:46 a.m., Daz felt the familiar thrum of adrenaline as his heart hammered against his ribs. He slipped his black leather gloves on and his trusty, well-used brass knuckles that nestled into the palm of his right hand.
He glanced at his crew, each of them in their right place.
“Move,” Daz whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain. He nudged the massive iron door, and it gave way with a heavy groan. The interior of the warehouse smelled of oil, stale cigarettes rows of stacked pallets.
They moved like a well-rehearsed machine. One of the brothers made his way to the guard station, where the guard was soon subdued, hog-tied, and gaffa-taped over his mouth.
Daz, lead the way. He pried open the massive containers that housed the drugs. The heavy doors swung open, revealing a tower of white powder glinting under the warehouse’s flickering lights.
Just as Daz was about to signal the transport to arrive to take the drugs away, a sudden, shrill wail cut through the night. Sirens, fierce, unrelenting, and impossibly close, they blared from the street outside, the blue lights flashing against the rain-slicked walls. The sound seemed to bounce off every metal surface, magnifying into an almost deafening roar.
Within minutes, a squad of officers had surrounded the warehouse, their boots splashing through puddles as they approached the main entrance, strong beams of light cutting arcs of white across the darkness.
Daz’s mind went into overdrive. Instinct, honed by years of street fights. He lunged forward, slamming his brass‑knuckled fist into the nearest officer’s jaw with a sickening thud. The man staggered back, clutching his bleeding face.
“Move!” Daz roared to the others, his voice hoarse with fury. “You’ll pay for this, you cunts!” He spat the words at the police who were surrounding him. His face twisted into a snarling mask of rage. The crack of his knuckles, as he swung at another officer, his knuckle duster biting into flesh and bone. The officer’s shoulder buckled, and he went down with a grunt. In the chaos, Daz threw a wild, desperate kick at a third cop, sending the officer’s shin. The impact sent the officer sprawling; his boot went down hard on the police officer's groin.
One of the skinheads, seeing an opening, slammed a crowbar into a fourth officer’s thigh, forcing him to collapse.
Daz and his crew attempted to retreat into the darkness, but the police outnumbered them. Daz found himself backed against a wall. His boots were flying, trying to make contact with the pigs. That’s when he felt intense pain, as one of the police officers struck out with his baton. He fell to the floor.
A heavy hand clamped around his wrist, and he felt the cold bite of metal as a set of handcuffs snapped shut around his wrists. He tried to swing his arm free, but the cuffs held fast. A pair of officers, their faces set in grim determination, forced him backwards toward a brightly lit paddy wagon (slang for a police vehicle to transport suspects), but not before they took aim at Daz and used a few kicks of their own.
Before the cuffs could be tightened further, Daz managed to land a final, ferocious punch on a fifth officer, his brass knuckles striking the man’s temple with enough force to send him reeling into the wall.
As he was dragged into the van, he saw his Boss and the other skinheads being shoved into other vans, their faces etched with a mix of anger and desperation.
He was transported to the police station, his boots striking out at the inside of the van, "You'll pay for this, you cunts!" he spat, his face twisted in a snarl,
Back at the station, Gibson paced the interrogation room. Daz had been handcuffed to the table due to his violent outbursts, with his bloodied face, which he received while resisting arrest.
"Darren, listen. Who that fuck is Darren? He spat, My name is Daz, you fuckin pig, remember that. Gibson carried on, "You’re an undercover police officer. We need to bring you back. Don’t you remember who you are?" He paused. “”
Daz lunged forward, “What the fuck are you talking about, spitting a spray of blood onto the table, you fuckin filthy pig, I’m a proud skinhead, always have been and always will “My family are my skinhead Brothers. This is who I am. I’m a skinhead. I’m proud of it. You think you can waltz in here and tell me who I am? You’re the one who’s lost his way, pig.”
His hand tightened around the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white as they clawed at the polished surface, his muscles bulging under his polo shirt that was stained where the fabric had been torn during his arrest. The sweat that beaded on his forehead dripped down his temples, tracing a path over his blackened eye and the cuts on his lips.
Inspector Gibson took a breath, feeling the air fill his lungs. He got up from his chair and stepped forward enough to close the distance, his hand resting lightly on the cold metal of the table, yet still maintaining his distance from Daz, close enough that his presence could be felt.
“You were prepped for this mission by our psychologist, Dr Wenger,” he continued, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on Daz’s. “Months of psychological conditioning indoctrination to make you a skinhead, the person who you think you are today
Daz’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his neck. Then Daz’s snarl erupted, raw and unfiltered: “Never heard of the cunt.” As he spat the words onto the floor between them, a phlegm-spattered curse. His knuckles whitened again against the steel table as if it might shatter, his voice a gravelly snarl of defiance.
Gibson leaned forward, his voice steady, and he fixed his gaze on Daz, seated across from him. "He implanted a trigger word," he began, choosing each word with precision, "a deeply embedded psychological trigger designed to override the changes made during the conditioning process." He paused, letting the weight of his revelation settle in the silent room. "It's not just a failsafe, it's a reversal protocol. Once activated, it will systematically dismantle your altered personality, the false memories, the behavioural conditioning, everything that was layered over you for the mission. It will bring you back, fully and completely, to the person you were before this assignment."
As Gibson was leaving the room, he turned to Daz, “We will get the doctor to see you tomorrow.
When the interview finally drew to a close, “Find Dr Wenger,” Gibson shouted to the Sargent I want you to bring him in tomorrow morning, first thing.”
A few hours later, the sergeant stepped into Inspector Gibson's office. I’ve got some news you need to hear,” the sergeant said, his voice low but steady, it's about Dr Wenger; he’s dead. He was killed in a road accident on the M25, about six months ago.” The sergeant continued. “It was a tragic accident, a high-speed pile-up during rush hour.
Do you know if they found any files about PC Bowman? asked Gibson, a search was made at the time, but nothing could be found; Gibson was desperate to find the trigger word, to bring back PC Bowman, to the police officer he was before the mission. It seems that the trigger word died with Dr Wenger.
For months, all techniques were used by top psychiatrists. Attempts to hypnotise Daz back failed spectacularly; the new personality was deeply rooted with armoured fail-safes that Wegener had implanted, rejecting suggestions with violent outbursts. One session ended with Daz headbutting a consulting psychiatrist, blood spraying across the observation glass. Daz became more aggressive with each attempt.
Nothing could be done to reverse Dr Wenger, work on Daz; he was lost in his persona of a violent skinhead.
The trial was a formality. Daz sat in the dock at the Old Bailey, arms crossed, shaved head scarred from fresh prison yard scuffles, his bleachers and braces replaced by a grey prison tracksuit that still couldn't hide the menace in his posture. He smirked through the prosecution's litany: as each charge was called out, he cheered, aggravated assault, GBH (Grievous Bodily Harm), racially motivated violence and attacks, Sexual Assault, and conspiracy to commit robbery, and assaulting police officers. At that point, Daz raised his arm and shouted out louder, “Filth”. As the trial continued, witnesses trembled recounting nights when Daz's boots had found their ribs, their faces.
Daz's eyes held no fear, only contempt for the wigged judge, the uniformed guards, the entire rotting system.
In the visitors' gallery sat Inspector Gibson; he had been there every day of the trial.
He was found guilty of all charges. As the judge passed sentence, Daz lunged in the box towards the judge, snarling, punching the glass with force.
He was sentenced to Twelve Years in prison. As he went down, he swore his revenge on the system, “All of You cunts will fuckin pay for this” he shouted.
He ended up at HMP Belmarsh, a high-security prison known as one of the most feared institutions in the UK, where the country’s most dangerous and violent offenders were locked away. He was not broken by the grim reality of a life inside with the constant hum of surveillance. In fact, the prison’s brutality only sharpened what had been implanted in him by Dr Wenger: a primal instinct for survival, a hunger to be feared, and an unyielding loyalty to a code that valued strength above all.
In the recreation yard, he found his people. They were fellow skins, factions of hardened, tattooed men with shaved heads and eyes like flint, their camaraderie forged in violence and mutual trust. To them, he was no stranger; rumours had reached them of a sadistic enforcer. They greeted him with nods and clenched fists, a silent promise of brotherhood, and soon, he was back in the thick of it: plotting hit-and-run assaults on rival gangs, engaging in brutal hand-to-hand fights to establish dominance, and brokering alliances over smuggled cigarettes. He even had a handful of “Screws” (Prison Guards) on his payroll.
Within weeks, he was classified as a Category A inmate with the highest security level for those deemed most likely to escape or pose a risk to the other inmates and the larger public. But the label did not confine him; it legitimised him in the eyes of his fellow inmates and the guards alike. It was a badge of notoriety, and he wore it with pride. The skinhead factions within Belmarsh, fractured into secretive cliques that operated like underground empires, welcomed him with the reverence of men encountering a war hero. They saw in him the spirit of their old-world militancy: the grit, the rage, and the unshakable code of honour that had nearly been lost in their decaying ranks.
He rose through the hierarchy with a ruthless efficiency that sent shivers through the prison wings. In the claustrophobic confines of the showers, he enforced debts with severe beating, ensuring his faction’s grip on the illicit economy of drugs, money laundering, and contraband. He orchestrated the smuggling of mobile phones. With his screws, turning a blind eye. Even in the sacred, candle-lit silence of the chapel, he led disorderly rallies of defiance, chanting anthems of skinhead pride that reverberated like war drums through the prison blocks.
But his wrath knew no bounds, not even for those who had once called him brother. When his former skinhead boss, now weakened by a failed attempt to escape, refused to acknowledge his new authority, the man found himself on the receiving end of a beating so vicious that the prison guards dared not intervene. It was a message, etched in blood and defiance: Loyalty was earned, and in Belmarsh, he was no longer a pawn. He was the Boss.
Years ground on. Parole boards came and went. Daz refused to engage, spitting at the panel, showing no remorse. "I ain't sorry for nothin'," he'd snarl.
A post-mission report was compiled, and the psychological evaluations labelled him "irredeemable profound personality reconfiguration with zero insight." The original Daren Bowman was declared psychologically deceased, a ghost overwritten by the work that Dr Wenger had done on him; some questioned the doctor's ethics, and some even suspected that the doctor was working for criminal gangs and Daren Bowman was a pawn. To send a message to the police. Even a theory that Wenger was killed so he would not betray the gangs and reveal the trigger word.
The Authorities, including the police, buried the report, never to see the light of day again.
Five years into Daz’s sentence, had a visitor. It was Inspector Gibson, who had recently retired, he was haunted by nightmares of what he had done to the up-and-coming police officer, who had his whole career ahead of him.
Daz spat at him, “What the fuck do you want, you filthy pig?” his face was scarred from the numerous fights he had in prison.
“You were a good lad once," Gibson whispered, voice cracking. "Helped old ladies cross the road. Believed in us." Daz leaned forward, a cruel smile splitting his face.
"That’s weakness, only the strong survive. Good lads die young, old man," his voice with the ever-present aggressive tone. "Or they wake up."
He stood as the guards approached, turning his back without another word. No flicker of recognition. No buried plea for rescue. Just the heavy thud of prison boots walking away.
There would be no redemption. No hidden trigger waiting to be spoken.
Only the endless echo of boots marching in lockstep, loyal to the grave and beyond.
Daz waited, plotting for the day of his release. Then it would be payback time.
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