Everyone in DB block knew the rules. New guards don’t last. Especially not young ones. Especially not calm ones. Especially not black men who walk in like they aren’t scared of monsters. Officer Marcus Hail stepped into the block on his first day. No swagger, no shouting, just steady eyes and a clipboard. The inmates watched him like wolves.

 And Tyson Cole, the prison’s most violent bully, saw the perfect target. Tyson stalked toward him, cracking his neck, grinning wide. Well, look at this. He boomed. A pretty boy rookie. Bet you never even seen real violence. Marcus didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up. Tyson hated that. He lunged forward and kicked Marcus in the thigh hard enough to send most rookies to the floor.

 The force slammed Marcus back against the metal table. The inmates erupted into laughter, pounding on the walls. Tyson leaned close. In here, you earn respect. And you? You ain’t. But then Marcus stood up, slow, controlled, unbothered, and the laughter died because there was something in his eyes, a coldness Tyson recognized.

 Not fear, not anger, experience. Before Tyson could speak again, the radios crackled to life. Control to DB block. Officer Marcus Hail has full clearance. Repeat, full clearance. All inmates, comply with his commands immediately. Tyson scoffed until the warden appeared behind Marcus and said, “Gentlemen, this isn’t a rookie.” He stepped forward.

 “This is the man who trained half the tactical units that arrested you.” The block went silent. Tyson’s smirk collapsed. the blood drained from his face because for the first time since entering prison, he realized the truth. He hadn’t attacked a rookie. He had kicked the one man who’d built a career turning criminals like him into cautionary tales.

 Stay with me until the end because what Tyson discovers next about Officer Hail flips the entire prison power structure upside down. Before we begin, don’t forget to like this video, hit subscribe, and comment where you’re watching from. Now, let’s get started. The morning had started like any other at Riverside Correctional. Guards shuffled through the gates.

 Most of them worn down by years of dealing with the worst society had to offer. Some carried themselves with false bravado, others with genuine fear masked behind stern expressions. But Marcus Hail walked differently. He moved through the corridors with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you’re capable of.

 No rushed footsteps, no nervous glances, just purposeful movement toward DB block, the most dangerous section of the entire facility. The other guards noticed. Officer Jenkins, a 20-year veteran, watched Marcus from the corner of his eye. New guys, either crazy, brave, or just plain crazy. He muttered to his partner. DB block on day one? That’s suicide. His partner, Officer Rodriguez, shook her head. Look at him, though.

Something’s different. Most rookies are sweating bullets by now. This guy looks like he’s going to a business meeting. They weren’t wrong. While other new hires spent their first weeks in minimum security, learning the ropes with petty thieves and drug possession cases, Marcus had specifically requested assignment to the maximum security wing.

 The warden had raised an eyebrow at the request, but approved it without question. There was something in Marcus’ file that made such assignments not just acceptable, but logical. As Marcus approached the heavy steel doors leading into DB block, the familiar sounds grew louder.

 Shouting, banging on cell doors, the constant undercurrent of tension that permeated every inch of the block. This was where they housed the worst of the worst. Murderers, gang leaders, men who had committed crimes so violent that even other criminals gave them wide birth. The electronic locks disengaged with a sharp buzz. The doors swung open, revealing the long corridor lined with cells on both sides.

 Cat calls and jeers immediately erupted from the inmates who caught sight of the new officer. But Marcus didn’t acknowledge them. He simply walked to the central desk, set down his clipboard, and began reviewing the daily roster. Inmate Rodriguez, serving life for a triple homicide, pressed his face against the bars. Hey, fresh meat.

 You lost? Minimum security is the other way. Laughter rippled through the block. More inmates joined in, sensing blood in the water. This was their entertainment, their chance to establish dominance over yet another guard who thought he could control them. But Marcus continued his paperwork, methodically checking names and cell assignments.

 His pen moved steadily across the pages, each motion deliberate and unhurried. The noise around him might as well have been white noise for all the attention he paid it. That’s when Tyson Cole emerged from his cell. Tyson wasn’t just any inmate. At 6’4 and 250 lbs of solid muscle, he commanded respect through fear alone.

 His arms bore tattoos that told the story of a life lived violently. teardrops under his left eye marking his kills, gang symbols across his chest, and scars that spoke of countless fights both inside and outside prison walls. He had been the undisputed king of DBlock for 3 years running. Guards who crossed him found their shifts becoming nightmares.

Inmates who challenged him ended up in the infirmary if they were lucky. Tyson ruled through a combination of brutal efficiency and psychological warfare that kept even the most hardened criminals in line. And now he saw opportunity walking toward him in the form of a quiet black officer who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Tyson’s reputation had been built on moments exactly like this.

 New guards represented fresh challenges, opportunities to demonstrate his power and remind everyone who really controlled DBlock. The younger and more composed they appeared, the more satisfying their eventual breakdown became. As he approached Marcus, Tyson cracked his knuckles loudly. The sound echoed through the corridor, causing conversations to die down as inmates positioned themselves to watch the show.

 This was better than television, better than any entertainment the prison system provided. Well, well, well, Tyson announced, his voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from years of intimidating people into submission. Look what we got here. A shiny new toy for us to play with. Marcus continued writing on his clipboard, seemingly oblivious to the 250 lbs of menace standing just feet away. His pen moved across the paper in neat, precise strokes.

 Completing whatever administrative task demanded his attention. The lack of reaction only fueled Tyson’s aggression. In his world, respect was measured by immediate acknowledgement of his presence. Guards typically either cowered or puffed up their chests in false bravado. But this one, this one acted like Tyson Cole didn’t even exist. You deaf boy? Tyson stepped closer.

 his voice dropping to a threatening whisper that somehow carried through the entire block. I’m talking to you. When Tyson Cole speaks, you listen. You understand me? Still nothing. Marcus flipped to the next page of his roster, his expression remaining perfectly neutral.

 A slight furrow appeared between his eyebrows as he located a particular entry, but otherwise his face might as well have been carved from stone. The inmates began to murmur among themselves. This was unprecedented. Nobody ignored Tyson Cole. Not guards, not inmates, not even the warden himself when he made his rare appearances in DBlock.

 The tension in the air grew thick enough to cut with a knife as everyone waited to see what would happen next. Tyson’s jaw clenched. His hands slowly curled into fists. In his mind, this disrespect couldn’t stand. His entire reputation, his control over the block, his very identity within these walls depended on maintaining the fear and respect of everyone around him.

 And this rookie was threatening all of that with his infuriating calm. Last chance, pretty boy. Tyson growled, positioning himself directly in Marcus’s line of sight. You acknowledge me right now, or I’m going to teach you some manners the hard way. Marcus finally looked up from his clipboard.

 His eyes met Tyson’s with a steady, measuring gaze that betrayed no emotion whatsoever. No fear, no anger, no intimidation, just calm assessment, as if he were looking at a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. That look infuriated Tyson more than any words could have.

 It was the look of someone who saw right through him, who wasn’t impressed by his size or his reputation or his carefully cultivated image of violence. It was the look of someone who had seen men like Tyson before and found them wanting. And that’s when everything Tyson thought he knew about power crumbled in an instant. Marcus straightened his uniform jacket with the same methodical precision he’d shown with his paperwork.

 No hurried movements, no defensive postures, just a man adjusting his clothing after an inconvenience like brushing dust off his sleeve. The silence stretched unbearably. Inmates who had been cheering moments before now pressed themselves against their cell bars, straining to hear every word. Even the usual background noise of the block had died to nothing more than nervous breathing.

 Tyson’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. His mind raced, trying to process what the warden had just revealed. Training tactical units, the same units that had brought down his crew, the same units that had ended his reign of terror on the streets. Marcus finally spoke, his voice carrying easily through the dead silence.

 Tyson Cole, convicted of armed robbery, aggravated assault, and conspiracy to commit murder, arrested during the Riverside District operation. March 15th, 2019. Tyson’s eyes widened. Those details weren’t in any file that regular guards would have access to. This was operational intelligence. The kind of information only someone deeply involved in law enforcement would possess.

 You remember that night, don’t you? Marcus continued, his tone conversational, almost friendly. Your crew had just hit the liquor store on Fifth Street. Three of your boys were already in custody before you even made it back to your car. The color drained completely from Tyson’s face now. He remembered that night with crystal clarity.

 The way the tactical team had moved like ghosts through the shadows, how they’d known exactly where his crew would be, exactly what routes they’d take, exactly how to cut off every escape route before anyone even realized they were being hunted. “That was you,” Tyson whispered. his voice barely audible. You planned that whole operation. Marcus nodded once, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Took us six months of surveillance.

 Your crew thought you were untouchable. Thought you owned those streets. He paused, letting that sink in. How did that work out for you? Inmate Rodriguez pressed his face harder against the bars of his cell. He remembered Tyson bragging about that crew, about how they’d ruled the east side for 2 years without anyone being able to touch them.

 Now he was learning that their downfall had been orchestrated by the quiet man standing in front of them. But that’s not all, is it? Marcus reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He flipped through several pages before finding what he was looking for. Let me see here. The Hernandez cartel takeown. The Blackwood gang raids. the Morrison family operation. He looked up at Tyson.

I planned those, too. Tyson stumbled backward, his back hitting the concrete wall with a dull thud. Each name Marcus mentioned represented a criminal organization that had dominated the city’s underworld. Organizations that inmates throughout the prison had either belonged to or feared.

 And now they were learning that the same man had systematically dismantled all of them. Impossible, Tyson muttered, shaking his head. You’re lying. You’re just some rookie trying to scare us with stories. The warden stepped forward, his expression serious. Officer Hail spent 12 years with the Metropolitan Police Strategic Operations Division.

 He holds advanced certifications in tactical planning, criminal psychology, and urban warfare. Before joining our staff, he was responsible for operations that resulted in over 200 felony arrests and the dismantling of seven major criminal organizations. Marcus closed his notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. The truth is, Tyson, I’ve been studying men like you for more than a decade. I know how you think.

 I know what motivates you. I know your patterns, your weaknesses, your fears. He took a step closer. And I know exactly how to break you. The threat wasn’t delivered with anger or malice. It was stated as simple fact. The way someone might mention the weather or the time of day, that casual certainty was more terrifying than any shouted intimidation could have been.

 Inmate Jackson, serving time for gang related violence, felt his hands begin to shake. He’d heard stories about cops like this. The ones who didn’t just arrest criminals, but studied them like specimens in a laboratory. The ones who could predict what you’d do before you knew it yourself.

 “See, here’s what’s going to happen,” Marcus continued, his voice never rising above a conversational tone. “You’re going to return to your cell. You’re going to spread the word that Officer Hail is not to be disrespected or threatened in any way. And you’re going to remember that every move you make, every plan you hatch, every scheme you cook up in that head of yours, I’ve already seen it before. Tyson’s hands clenched into fists. But they trembled visibly now.

His entire identity had been built on being the predator, the one everyone else feared. Now he was face to face with someone who had made a career out of hunting predators like him. And if you’re thinking about retaliation, Marcus added as if reading Tyson’s mind. Remember that I didn’t just arrest your crew that night.

 I also arrested your cousin Deshawn, your lieutenant Marcus Williams, and your girlfriend Kesha Thompson. They’re all doing time and facilities I helped design the security protocols for. That final revelation hit Tyson like a physical blow. Those weren’t just arrests Marcus was listing.

 Those were the people who mattered most to him, the connections that had defined his life outside these walls. And now he was learning that their captures hadn’t been bad luck or sloppy planning. They had been calculated moves by the man standing in front of him. The inmates throughout DBlock exchanged nervous glances. They had expected to witness a rookie’s humiliation.

 Instead, they were watching their undisputed leader reduced to a trembling shadow of himself by a man who spoke with the quiet authority of someone who had spent years turning their world upside down. Marcus picked up his clipboard from the metal table and resumed his paperwork as if the entire confrontation had been nothing more than a minor interruption to his daily routine.

 The sound of his pen scratching across paper was the only noise in the entire block. But this was just the beginning because what happened next would reshape the entire power structure of Riverside Correctional. And Tyson Cole was about to learn that his reputation meant nothing compared to the systematic precision of a man who had built his career on making criminals disappear.

 Ear the warden turned to address the entire block. his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. Let me make something crystal clear to everyone here. Officer Hail didn’t request this assignment because he’s some naive rookie looking to prove himself.

 He requested DB block because this is exactly where the administration wants him. Marcus continued his paperwork, but every inmate could feel his presence like electricity in the air. The man who had just absorbed Tyson’s kick without flinching was now methodically reviewing files. And somehow that quiet focus was more unsettling than any display of force could have been.

 Tyson remained frozen against the wall. His mind racing through implications he didn’t want to accept. The tactical operations Marcus had mentioned weren’t just random arrests. They were systematic dismantling of entire criminal networks. operations that had required months of planning and an understanding of street level psychology that most cops never developed.

 You see, the warden continued, “The state correctional board has been monitoring violence levels in maximum security facilities across the region. DBlocks incidents have increased 47% over the past 18 months. That ends today.” Inmate Williams, a career criminal with connections throughout the prison system, felt his stomach drop. He’d heard whispers about new policies being tested in other facilities, specialized officers with military and tactical backgrounds being brought in to restore order where traditional methods had failed.

 Now he was staring at living proof that those whispers were true. Marcus finally looked up from his clipboard, his gaze sweeping across the cells with clinical precision. I’ve read every file in this block, every arrest record, every incident report, every psychological evaluation. His voice remained conversational, but it carried through the silence like a blade.

 I know which of you responds to direct confrontation and which of you prefers manipulation. I know who the real leaders are and who just makes noise. He stepped away from the desk, moving slowly down the corridor. Inmates who moments before had been jeering and cat calling now pressed themselves to the backs of their cells, suddenly unwilling to draw attention.

 Take Rodriguez there, Marcus said, stopping in front of one of the cells. The inmate inside went pale. Three counts of armed robbery. But that’s not what makes you dangerous. It’s the way you recruit younger inmates to do your dirty work while keeping your own hands clean. Classic manipulation pattern. I’ve seen it dozens of times. Rodriguez’s mouth went dry. Those details weren’t in any standard file that guards would have access to.

 This level of insight required the kind of deep background investigation that only special units conducted. Marcus moved to the next cell. And Jackson, gang affiliation since age 14. You think violence is a language, but you’ve never learned to speak it fluently.

 That’s why you ended up here instead of running your own crew on the outside. Jackson’s hands clenched into fists, but he didn’t speak. There was something in Marcus’ tone that suggested challenging him would be a mistake beyond calculation. But you, Tyson,” Marcus said, turning back to face the man still pressed against the wall. “You’re different.

 You understand power dynamics better than most. You know that respect in here isn’t earned through random violence. It’s maintained through consistent demonstration of control,” Tyson straightened slightly, unsure whether he was being complimented or threatened. “The problem is,” Marcus continued. “Your understanding of power is limited to this environment. You’ve never had to adapt to someone who operates on a completely different level.

 The warden checked his watch. Officer Hail, I’ll leave you to get settled. Your first official shift begins in 30 minutes. He paused at the door. Gentlemen, I suggest you pay close attention to how things work from now on. The old rules no longer apply.

 As the warden’s footsteps echoed away down the corridor, the silence in DBlock became suffocating. Marcus returned to his paperwork, but now every inmate understood they were witnessing something unprecedented. This wasn’t a guard trying to establish authority. This was a predator taking inventory of his new hunting ground. Inmate Thompson, serving time for assault with a deadly weapon, whispered to the man in the next cell.

 Did you hear what he said about the Blackwood gang? My cousin was part of that crew. They got taken down so fast nobody knew what hit them. The whispered conversation spread through the block like wildfire. Inmates began sharing stories, connecting dots they’d never noticed before. The precision of certain arrests.

 The way entire criminal organizations had vanished seemingly overnight. Operations that had seemed like impossible coincidences were revealing themselves as carefully orchestrated campaigns. Marcus pulled out his radio and spoke quietly into it. Control, this is Hail beginning preliminary assessment of DB block dynamics.

 Request updated psychological profiles on inmates Cole, Rodriguez, Jackson, Williams, and Thompson. The response crackled back immediately. Copy that, Officer Hail. Files are being transmitted to your secure terminal now. Tyson’s eyes widened. Secure terminals were reserved for administration and specialized units.

 Regular guards didn’t have access to that level of detailed inmate information. The realization hit him like a physical blow. Marcus wasn’t just a new guard with an impressive background. He was part of something bigger, something systematic. You’re wondering what this really is, Marcus said, not looking up from his clipboard.

He wasn’t addressing anyone specific, but somehow every inmate knew he was speaking to all of them. You’re thinking this might be some kind of experiment, some new approach the state is trying out. He flipped to a fresh page and began making notes. You’re right. DBlock is a pilot program.

 The administration has identified certain facilities where traditional correctional methods have proven insufficient. Those facilities are being selected for enhanced management protocols. The temperature in the block seemed to drop several degrees. enhanced management protocols sounded clinical, official, and terrifying.

 What that means, Marcus continued, is that your behavior patterns have been analyzed by specialists who understand criminal psychology better than you understand yourselves. Every move you make from this point forward will be predicted, anticipated, and countered before you even realize you’re making it.” Inmate Davis, who had been serving time quietly and avoiding trouble, felt his chest tighten.

 He’d been planning to keep his head down and finish his sentence without incident. Now he was realizing that even model behavior might not protect him from whatever was coming. Marcus walked over to Tyson, who was still pressed against the wall. You kicked me because you needed to establish dominance. It’s a pattern you learned on the street and perfected in here.

 But here’s what you didn’t consider. I wanted you to kick me. Tyson’s face went ashen. What? I needed to see your exact response pattern under pressure. How hard you hit. How you position yourself afterward. Whether you follow up immediately or wait to see the reaction. Marcus made a note on his clipboard.

 Now I have baseline data on your primary aggression response. The implications crashed over Tyson like a wave. He hadn’t been asserting dominance. He had been performing like a trained animal, dancing to someone else’s choreography without realizing it. The kick itself was predictable, Marcus said. What interested me was the specific target you chose and the force you applied.

 That tells me about your self-control, your assessment of consequences, and your underlying psychology. Tyson slumped against the wall, the fight draining out of him completely. His entire identity had been built on being unpredictable, on keeping others off balance through the threat of sudden violence.

 Now he was learning that even his most spontaneous actions had been anticipated and analyzed. “Don’t look so defeated,” Marcus said, his tone almost kind. “Understanding your patterns doesn’t make you weak. It just means you’re human. Everyone has patterns. The difference is whether you’re aware of them or not. He turned to address the entire block again. Here’s what’s going to happen over the next few weeks.

 Each of you will be given opportunities to demonstrate your current behavioral patterns. Some of you will adapt to the new environment. Others will resist and discover that resistance has consequences they haven’t anticipated. The radio on Marcus’ belt crackled to life. Officer Hail, this is control. The warden would like to see you in his office when convenient.

Marcus keyed his radio. Copy that, control. I’ll be there in 10 minutes. He looked around the block one final time. Gentlemen, use this time to think carefully about what kind of inmates you want to be. When I return, we’ll begin implementing the new protocols.

 As Marcus walked toward the exit, every inmate watched his retreating figure with a mixture of fear and fascination. The man who had absorbed their most violent residence attack without flinching was now walking away as if nothing significant had happened. But everyone in DB block understood that everything had changed. Tyson remained against the wall, staring at the spot where Marcus had been standing. For the first time since entering prison, he felt completely powerless.

 And the most terrifying part was knowing that this was exactly what had been planned from the moment officer Marcus Hail first walked through those doors. The heavy steel door clanged shut behind Marcus, leaving DBlock in absolute silence. But everyone knew that silence was temporary. When Marcus returned, the real education would begin, and none of them were prepared for what they were about to learn about themselves.

 The silence stretched for what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes. When the steel door reopened, Marcus returned carrying a thick manila folder and a tablet device that none of the regular guards ever carried. His footsteps echoed differently now, each one deliberate and measured, like a countdown timer ticking toward something inevitable.

 Tyson hadn’t moved from his position against the wall. The other inmates remained pressed against their cell bars, watching, waiting, sensing that whatever came next would determine how the rest of their sentences would unfold. The old hierarchy of DBlock had crumbled in the span of 30 minutes, leaving everyone scrambling to understand the new reality.

 Marcus set the folder on the metal desk and opened his tablet. The screen cast a blue glow across his face as he scrolled through what appeared to be detailed profiles and psychological assessments. Each swipe revealed another layer of information that regular correctional officers would never have access to. I met with the warden, Marcus said, his voice carrying easily through the silence. We discussed the implementation timeline for the enhanced protocols.

Starting tomorrow, DB block will operate under a completely different set of rules. He looked up from the tablet, his gaze sweeping across the cells. Some of you are wondering if you can adapt. Others are already planning resistance. A few are calculating whether you can manipulate the new system the same way you manipulated the old one.

 Inmate Rodriguez shifted uncomfortably in his cell. That last observation hit uncomfortably close to home. He had indeed been thinking about ways to work around whatever changes were coming, using the same psychological manipulation tactics that had served him well for years. The difference between the old system and what’s coming, Marcus continued, is that the old system reacted to your behavior after it happened. The new system predicts your behavior before you act on it. He pulled out a chair and sat down, the casual

gesture somehow more intimidating than if he had remained standing. For example, Rodriguez, you’re currently planning to test my authority in approximately 48 hours. You’ll wait long enough for me to establish a routine. Then you’ll orchestrate some kind of incident that appears spontaneous, but is actually designed to gauge my response patterns. Rodriguez’s face went pale.

 The accuracy of that prediction was terrifying because it meant Marcus understood not just what he might do, but when and why he would do it. Jackson, you’re taking a different approach. You’re planning to stay completely invisible for the next two weeks while you observe how I handle other situations. Classic predator behavior. Waiting to see the prey weaknesses before striking.

 Jackson pressed himself against the back wall of his cell, suddenly feeling exposed despite the concrete barriers surrounding him. The fact that Marcus could read his intentions so clearly meant there was nowhere to hide. And Williams, you’re the most interesting of all. You’re not planning direct confrontation or passive observation.

 You’re calculating how to position yourself as an informant, thinking you can trade information about other inmates for preferential treatment. Williams felt his stomach drop. That exact strategy had crossed his mind multiple times since Marcus had left. The precision of these predictions was beyond unsettling. It was like having his thoughts read in real time. Marcus stood and walked over to Tyson, who remained frozen against the wall.

 But you, Tyson, you’re not planning anything at all right now. Your entire world view has been shattered and you’re experiencing something you haven’t felt since you were 12 years old. Genuine fear of consequences you can’t control or predict. Tyson’s mouth opened and closed without sound. The accuracy of that assessment cut deeper than any physical blow could have.

 He was indeed feeling like that scared kid again, the one who had learned to use violence as a shield against a world that seemed determined to crush him. The question is, Marcus said, returning to his desk, what each of you decides to do with that information, because understanding your patterns isn’t the same as controlling your choices.

 You still get to decide who you want to be. He opened the Manila folder and pulled out a stack of documents. These are new cell assignments based on psychological compatibility assessments and risk factor analyses. Some of you will be moved to different blocks entirely. Others will remain here under modified conditions.

 The tablet in his hand buzzed with an incoming message. Marcus read it quickly, then looked up with what might have been the ghost of a smile. Interesting. The psychological evaluation team has completed their preliminary assessment based on today’s interactions.

 Their predictions about your individual response patterns are remarkably consistent with my field observations. Inmate Davis raised his hand tentatively. Sir, what if someone wants to change? What if they don’t want to keep following the same patterns? Marcus turned his attention to Davis with genuine interest. That’s the first intelligent question anyone has asked today.

 Change is possible, but it requires something most people aren’t willing to do. It requires admitting that your current approach to life has been fundamentally flawed. Marcus closed the tablet and looked around DBlock one final time. The silence that had once been filled with threats and intimidation now carried something different.

 uncertainty, possibility, fear mixed with the faintest glimmer of hope. Change starts with a single choice, he said quietly. Tomorrow, each of you gets to make that choice. Some will embrace it. Others will fight it, but everyone will face it. He gathered his files and walked toward the exit, his footsteps echoing with quiet authority.

 At the door, he paused and turned back. The old DB block died today. What replaces it depends entirely on who you decide to become. As the steel door closed behind Officer Marcus Hail, every inmate understood that their lives had just been divided into two parts. Before Marcus and everything that would come after the man who had absorbed their worst without breaking, had just shown them something they’d forgotten existed, the possibility of real change.

 And for Tyson Cole, pressed against that concrete wall, the terrifying truth was finally clear. He hadn’t just kicked a rookie guard. He had kicked the man who would either save his life or end everything he thought he knew about survival. The revolution in DBlock had begun with a single kick. But it would end with choices none of them were prepared to