The unappetizing, slimy substance of murky yellow color was hardly recognizable as porridge. It bore a resemblance to the gruel consumed by characters in "The Matrix," yet unlike its fictional counterpart, it was unlikely to offer any valuable nutrients. Daniel sliced through it both lengthwise and crosswise, observing how the thick mass promptly reassembled itself. With a sigh, he reluctantly took the first spoonful – though Sennoy was sharing proper food with him, he avoided flaunting his privilege too conspicuously to prevent arousing envy among the others. Only Sennoy could afford such liberties, expressing his disdainful distaste and abandoning his meal, but Daniel was expected to consume his food with humility. The less he is envied, the less irritation he would face.

Someone jabbed him in the shoulder, causing Daniel to clench his teeth around his spoon. He cast an unhappy glance at Palka, who wedged himself between Daniel and quiet, timid Lyuska. Palka slammed his metal bowl onto the table, sending droplets scattering messily, then sat down, fixing Daniel with a victorious gaze filled with anticipation.

"I just got back from the infirmary, and guess what? They're letting Bright out today," he grinned, flashing surprisingly white teeth. Despite being low in the pecking order, he made an effort to look good: he asked the prison barber to go easy on his haircut, dabbed on some cheap foundation to cover his vitamin-deficient skin, and took care of his teeth. He was considered one of the most attractive roosters in the zone. But now, with a cold, red, flaky nostrils, and crusty lips, he looked worse than Lyuska, the orphanage malnourished kid. He managed to catch a cold in the summer heat. "Are you peeing yourself, Dashka?"

"What do you care?" Daniel pushed the bowl aside, the nauseating porridge worsening his discomfort.

"I don't care," Palka wolfed down his food, his eyes fixed on Daniel. "Just curious. Marinka said he's all better now, just limping, but he's pissed as fucking hell."

"Why you gotta hassle the guy?" Svetka chimed in, peering out from behind the silent Daniel. "We're all unhappy Bright's back. Ain't it you he almost sliced up?"

"Well, let's just say I ain't shedding tears for Bright. If it were up to me, I'd slice him myself," Palka growled fiercely. "But I wanna see how he fucks up Dashka. Let's see if Dashka can take him down like Katya. You fucking gladiator. Svetka, you're sticking up for Dashka for nothing - Sennoy might pit him against you next."

Svetka grunted uncertainly at the sensible comment and fell silent, focusing on his porridge again. Daniel understood him well - who would want to fight until they were knocked out for the entertainment of the weirdos? It was fortunate that after the initial fight, Sennoy took a break - he wasn't pleased with how beaten up and bruised and unattractive his mashka had ended up, even though he was planning more fights. He still harbored the foolish notion of molding Daniel into a tough fighter. But with the recent incident involving Bright, Sennoy had temporarily forgotten about the rooster fights - he had more pressing matters to attend to. Would he defend Daniel if Bright sought revenge? Daniel wasn't sure; as usual, Sennoy didn't bother to explain.

"Why ain't you chowing down?" Palka sneered with venom, scouring his bowl till it shone and then thrusting Daniel's. "Our crap ain't your flavor, huh? Sennoy keeping you well-fed?"

"I'm good," Daniel replied flatly, fixating on the clock. He couldn't wait for lunch to end so he could talk to Sennoy, figure out what he'd decided. This damn wait was grating on his nerves.

"Living the high life, Dashka. You ain't gagging on our slop, you're on an easy gig, not like us - freezing or sweating it out. Want me to spill some beans you don't know?" Palka leaned in close, sporting a wicked grin and ignoring Daniel's elbow in his side. "They didn't downgrade you lawlessly..."

"You'll pay for your crap!" Svetka bellowed, pounding his fist on the table. "You're pissing me off, Palka! It's been a while since you got a beating, miss it? Well, I'll whisper to the right folks, and you'll catch it today, and I won't even have to get my hands dirty."

Palka flared his nostrils in anger but seemed to come to his senses and kept quiet, turning away from Daniel. The threat wasn't empty. Svetka, acting like a mother figure, could rally the other roosters to beat him up or throw him into gen pop for a night. Daniel tensed up – he later found out the names of the four attackers, yet he still had no clue who ordered the downgrade. All four of those bastards were clearly just pawns, following orders from someone else, and it was impossible to determine whose. They wouldn't give him an answer, only sneer or hit him for such a bold question. It was also difficult to trace their affiliations - two under Stakhan, two under Sennoy, and Daniel did not cross paths with any of them before the rape. "Lawlessness happens," Svetka explained philosophically then, shrugging his shoulders.

"Who gave the order?" His voice shook with a hint of betrayal, still raw, still recovering from what he had almost accepted. Daniel grabbed his sleeve, turning him sharply, and whispered more intensely. "Who?"

"Nobody!" Palka scoffed, pulling his arm away. "I was just talking crap, okay? Did it sting?" Palka chuckled gleefully, relishing the reaction. Instantly, rage surged through Daniel, his fist clenched involuntarily, and he lunged forward toward the smiling face, eager to wipe it away, to crush it. His knuckles burned, others closed in behind him, forming a circle. And Palka, shaking his head, let out a muffled groan, touching his swollen lip in disbelief, then rushed into the fray.

The fight fizzled out before it even started- as lunchtime ended. Guards, corralling the convicts for formation, hurried toward them, brandishing their batons as a warning. Daniel escaped with just a minor bruise - a passing blow to the thigh. There was no time to dwell on it; he was fortunate. It was a pointless skirmish, wasted energy on a fool. Palka was clearly trying to provoke him, to breach his indifference. But attention needed to be focused elsewhere - on survival.

Daniel looked to Sennoy, hoping for a signal, but Sennoy merely glanced at him with a calm, indifferent gaze before turning away. Damn him. It wasn't as if Daniel was the one Bright was targeting tonight. Daniel clenched his jaw - think, figure out what to do next.

The machine buzzed soothingly, its stitches as smooth as ever. Daniel mechanically turned the stiff tarp, sewing along the chalked lines. His hands moved with practiced ease, allowing his mind to focus on the task at hand—calm and confident, a sharp contrast to his tense nerves. Bright would now only be able to approach him in the canteen—he was no longer a privileged shot caller who could flout the rules and walk away from work. It sucked that he would have to sit at the table for downgraded, making it easy for Bright to attack him with a knife or shiv if they hadn't been confiscated. Even if they had, Daniel had little chance against Bright—he was skilled in fighting and, worse, prone to explosive rage, a total psycho. Only the other downgraded could stop him, and even then, they might not help—Svetka, when asked for aid, would merely avert his gaze and mumble something before leaving. Clearly, someone had intimidated him into staying out of it—either Bright's former crew or others who simply wanted entertainment.

His hand shook, causing the stitches to go awry. Daniel switched off the machine, closed his eyes briefly in an attempt to regain his composure, and then retrieved the sewing from beneath his foot. He gazed longingly at the pile of mittens he had already finished and sighed—he wouldn't meet his daily quota at this rate. It was time to set aside his nerves and focus on the task; he could ponder the unsolvable problem later. What did Sennoy say? Problems should be addressed as they arise, so he will decide when this problem arises. Or not.

Bright strode into the dining room with an air of defiance, as if his position hadn't changed. Despite his outward composure, his eyes darted around, avoiding contact to avoid provocation. Only the tight line of his lips and the nervous twitch of his cheek betrayed his tension, especially amidst the mocking taunts. Under different circumstances, Daniel might have admired Bright's resilience, but now he seethed with a volatile mix of fear and loathing. The cacophony of shouts and clattering dishes engulfed the room, emanating from all corners—those who had once praised Bright, those who had sided with him, and even those he had kicked around. It was a surprising convergence of disparate factions reveling in petty triumph.

His breathing quickened, his palms sweated, and his legs stiffened as he stepped in line to get his food. Daniel took a bowl of buckwheat porridge with stew, on top of which lay two gray pieces of bread, took a mug of compote and, trying to keep Bright in his peripheral vision, walked quickly to the table. To free his hands as soon as possible, to clasp in his right hand the seam ripper he had stolen from the sewing shop and to be ready to attack. There was a chance, a minuscule one, but there was a chance - to drive the point into Bright's eye, to get the upper hand in the fight, and then to finish him off. Sennoy, already seated in his seat, looked indifferent, sipped his compote - the only thing Sennoy wasn't squeamish about in the canteen - and turned to look at Bright. Daniel held his breath - hope flared sharp, frantic. But Sennoy gave Bright the same indifferent look and turned away, saying something to his men.

Something felt off. A glitch on the brink of consciousness. Daniel, abruptly setting down his tray on the table and spilling his compote, retrieved a small blade from his pocket, scanning the room with a cold realization. The guards were gone. Every single one of them had left their posts. They had purposefully turned a blind eye, leaving the inmates to fend for themselves. There was no use in sitting down. His mouth was dry, temples pulsating with anxiety, and the tiny weapon pricked the tightly clenched palm of his hand.

Bright noticed the change too. His eyes gleamed with madness, grinning with anticipation. He slid out of line, sauntering lazily towards him. Each step echoed in the tense silence, grating on nerves. Their eyes locked - intense, triggering a surge of adrenaline.

"I'll kill you slowly," Bright vowed with a twisted affection, narrowing his eyes. "You'll regret the day you were born, Dashka."

Daniel missed Bright's first blow, as he swung awkwardly, attempting to drive the seam ripper into Bright's eye. His vision blurred, and his head throbbed with a deafening ring. Dodging the next blow, Daniel delivered a powerful kick to Bright's knee followed by a smashing punch to his cheekbone. Despite the ferocity of the attack, Bright didn't even flinch, his retaliatory strike hitting Daniel squarely in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. Daniel involuntarily doubled over, gasping for air and attempting to block the relentless barrage of blows. Fear surged through him, sapping his strength and leaving him defenseless. Desperately trying to summon rage, Daniel remembered Katya's fierce determination as he tried to fend off Bright's onslaught. Suddenly, an explosion of pain engulfed his head, drowning out the surrounding noise. That's it, it's all over.

"Hold up, Yanka!" Sennoy's voice sliced through the chaotic uproar, tethering Daniel's slipping consciousness to reality. Clinging to the sound, Daniel struggled to his feet, his palms slick with sweat scraping against the floor. He shook his head, trying to dispel the ringing in his ears and the haze clouding his vision.

"What do you think you are doing, Sennoy?" Bright's hoarse, agitated voice echoed in his ear. "It's against the code for a man to defend a rooster!"

"My rooster, I do what I want," Sennoy interjected bluntly. "And you, Yanka, why the hell are you making eye contact? You fucking rooster, keep your eyes on the damn floor!"

"Fuck you!" Bright roared, driven by adrenaline and heedless of the consequences—he hadn't learned his lesson in the hospital. Daniel coughed, spitting out blood and a fragment of tooth, and grinned, his eyes narrowing. Now, Bright-Yanka, you'll see what happens when you mess with the boss.

Bright chocked on his next words and let out a piercing scream, collapsing to the ground. Daniel flinched, alarmed by the sharp cry, turned towards the commotion, and sank back against the wall. It wasn't just a beating; it was a brutal slaughter, reminiscent of cattle being crushed under heavy boots, bones crunching with each blow, bodies jumping on him, writhing and gasping. Sennoy, Andron, Vlad, Shamil, Hasan—each one mercilessly taunting, baring their teeth like beasts, their eyes fixed on the victim, who was already convulsing uncontrollably. Daniel had never witnessed a fatal beating before. Knowing it happened was one thing, but seeing it unfold before his eyes, feeling every merciless kick, realizing that a man was being killed right in front of him, was something entirely different.

Laughter and shouting echoed around, reveling in the gruesome spectacle. Amidst the chaos, a feminine, high-pitched wail pierced the air, discordant and deeply unsettling, evoking buried feelings of pity. Daniel shuddered, covering his ears in a futile attempt to block out the mournful cries and the savage roars of the onlookers, yet the sounds persisted. Suddenly, the violence ceased, and Sennoy wiped the sweat from his brow with the weary resignation of a man who had seen too much. With a tremble in his voice, he muttered.

"It's all over."

And indeed, it was - the scene before them was chilling. Bright lay twisted on the floor, his limbs contorted at unnatural angles, his face a bloody mess turned towards the ceiling. Blood spattered the iron legs of the table, the boots of his assailants, and trickled in dark rivulets from beneath his body, pooling slowly in grotesque puddles.

"Shut your traps!" Sennoy's hand shot up, commanding silence from the room. "This is what happens to anyone who messes with me. Got it?" Sennoy glared at the gathered inmates. "And if anyone says I protected a mashka, they're dead wrong! I don't give a damn about the mashka. Yanka crossed me, and that's why he got what he deserved. Remember that!" Sennoy spat on the floor with disdain and relaxed, the room falling silent as the pack absorbed the lesson.

Daniel slumped against the wall, his legs giving out beneath him. He buried his face in his knees, telling himself that this nightmare would eventually come to an end. The important thing was that he was still breathing, and he'd figure out the rest somehow.

He sprawled on the floor as the guards rushed into the canteen, their boots clattering loudly. Relief washed over him in erratic waves, gradually easing the adrenaline coursing through his veins and numbing the pain. Aches pierced him like tiny needles wherever Bright's fists had landed - sharp, persistent, searing, draining his strength. Amidst the chaotic shouts of the guards and the thudding of footsteps, the unsettling noise of a body being dragged away echoed faintly through the haze. Daniel obeyed commands to lie down, stand, and line up, moving with effort, his movements shaky and uncertain. He stared blankly at the ground, lost in thought.

Back in the house, he collapsed onto the bunk, his gaze still fixed on the dried blood staining his hands. He lacked the strength to move, still trembling with the aftershocks of the ordeal. His mind was blank, filled only with an overwhelming sense of relief.

"Get yourself cleaned up and patch up those wounds," Sennoy snapped, jolting him out of his dazed state and grounding him back in reality. He crouched down, scrutinizing Daniel's eyes for any signs of imminent panic. "Dashka, remember - I did it for you."

"But you said..." Daniel began to rouse, grasping the implication of Sennoy's words.

"I don't care what I said there," Sennoy replied, furrowing his brow. "I dealt with Bright for your sake. Don't ever forget that."

"Thanks," Daniel mumbled, not bothering to search for the plastic bag containing washcloth and a towel. As he stood up, the weight on his shoulders felt heavier - life would be much simpler without the burden of knowing you'd indirectly caused someone's death.