Moody overcasts, imposing architecture, frantic streets. He stood at the base of the tallest building in the world and bathed in the glory and accomplishment it represented. The docks, the waters the open ocean. A universe captured in a settlement. At his side, a figure, but he could not make out the face. 

The city would have swallowed him, had he let it.

But there was work to do. 

Steam rose from a manhole, the stench filling his senses. The smell turned sour, metallic, with a trace of charcoal. 

Run. 

Reality flooded back into his conscious like a thundering stampede. His hand wavered over the corpse of one, two, three bodies, rapidly soaking in their own gore. In his grip, the smoking gun. The Detroit street thugs lay dead in the alley, riddled with gunshots earned through repeated extortion of the boy. It was done. 

A whistle, shrill and firm. 

No, not yet. 

Run. 

Anthony Black picked up his feet and fled as an officer of Detroit hastily approached the scene. The whistle sounded again, cut short as he came to realize the macabre stage he was stepping onto. But Anthony was already gone. 

It wasn't far, the Detroit thugs had been foolish enough to be baited close enough to the next mark. Another whistle. The boy twisted and turned through the streets and alleys. He scaled a wall, hopped a fence, knocked through a door. 

"...Who the fuck are you?"

"..."

His face was ragged and craggy, poorly shaved and saggy. Corse patches of skin and a red rashes were painted over poor complexion. His belt was unbuckled and his undershirt hanging loosely from elderly shoulders. The man was in his 50's, later years, perhaps. His hair was thinning but uncut, greasy strands framing his loathsome gaze. 

He had a bottle of bourbon in one hand and a young boy in the other. His grip was fastened around the terrified child's neck. He glared for a little longer, before barking again. 

"I said who the fuck are you!?"

"..."

He paused, tilting his head. 

"Black?"

He threw the child to one side and tugged his belt free of his pants, laughing manically between throat grating wheeze's. 

The whistles grew nearer. 

"Well, well, looks like you finally shut the fuck up, like your cunt mother should have."

He raised the belt over his head, the buckle clinking as it reached the top of his swing. 

"There are exceptions."

Without hesitation, Anthony raised his arm and unloaded four rounds into the man's crotch. He cried out, collapsing backwards, horrified at the blood gradually swelling up his vest. He looked into Anthony's eyes and the boy stared right back. 

"I want you to know, you're going to die."

The trigger was pulled a final time. Whistles closed in. Crimson ejected in all directions. Anthony looked at the cowering child in the corner of the room and offered a reassuring smile. 

Hands closed around his shoulders, thrusting him to the ground. 

The gavel rattled, the bars slammed shut. 

45 to life. 

Renard opened his eyes as he heard a cell door clang shut. It was close enough that it could have been the one next to his, and a new neighbor would be the most exciting thing to happen to him all week.

There were twelve cells in this particular block of the Detroit House of Correction. They were in a row of iron bars, facing in the same direction. The only things when visible looking out the cells were the larger cage around them and the barred windows begrudgingly allowing the prisoners a view of the afternoon sunshine. 

Renard propped himself up on his elbow as he heard the guard's footsteps fade away and the familiar clang as the big cage closed up. And he waited. 

Myriel Renard had once been restless and impulsive, but patience was one of the many lessons that living in a cage forcibly imparted. How much time passed? 15 minutes? An hour? No one could say. 

Renard cleared his throat before speaking. Normally, they alternated empty cells when there were only six prisoners, so the newcomer must be lucky number seven. Renard knew that he would be only a voice to this other man, so he made sure to adopt the proper mix of curiosity, indifference, and strength. His voice was low, so as not to be overheard by the guards who occasionally walked back and forth outside the big cage.

"What's your name? What're you in for?"

Back in Los Angeles, Lily is passing a newsstand and decides to stop and see what the competition was selling their candy bars and comics for. She quietly studies and nods as she walks slowly by, seeing that she did indeed have the better deal on chocolates and even some of the comics. When she reached the shelf of big city newspapers, her mouth drops open and works soundlessly.

No. NO!

Reaching out with trembling hands, she picks up the Detroit newspaper and reads. He...murder? In prison! Forty-five to life?!?

"Hey girlie you gonna buy that? No freebies!" The newspaper hawker barked at her. Dropping the paper to the ground, she turns and runs back towards the boardwalk and the family businesses, tears streaming down her face as the newsie yells curse words behind her.

Frankie was sitting in the tattoo parlor reading one of the comic books Lily had left behind when she came bursting through the door in tears. Thinking at first that she had been attacked he rushed over to her and looked for any injuries. Seeing none he sat her down and wrapped a protective arm around her as he tried to calm her down. 

As she explained what had happened to Anthony Frankie called back to Alex who came rushing into the lobby and upon hearing what was happening decided there was only one course of action that could be taken. Anthony was one of their own - not to mention meaning a lot to Lily - and RP Inc wasn't about to let him rot in a jail cell. Walking over to the phone he made several quick calls ordering all hands to an emergency meeting. Looking at Lily he smiled slightly and said in a calming voice, "Don't worry, we'll have him out of there before you know it."