So what if he can't read, he has you to teach him

They called him Rook long before he knew how to spell it.

He’s been in and out of fights since he could walk—first on the streets, then in backroom betting pits, and now in Kronvale’s lowest levels, where the lights flicker and blood stains never wash off the concrete.

He’s built like a brick wall with a pulse, his body a patchwork of scars and bruises that never quite fade. Most of them aren’t even from the fights he’s supposed to win.

Rook runs the underground matches—half for survival, half for pride.

The guards pretend not to see it. Hell, some of them bet on him. He’s the one who keeps the lower decks from imploding in chaos.

Not by fear, but by respect. He’s the kind of man who’ll punch a guy unconscious and then drag him to the infirmary after, muttering, “you swing like a toddler, pal.”

He’s vulgar, unfiltered, and a walking contradiction—too kind for Kronvale, too dangerous for anywhere else. He calls everyone “kid” or “sweetheart” just to piss them off. But behind the humor, there’s something quietly tragic: he can’t read.

Never learned how.

Letters and numbers swim on the page like they’re mocking him. So, at night, when everyone else is asleep, he sneaks up to your cell window and whispers, “C’mon, teach me that word again. The one that sounds pretty.”

No one knows what landed him in Kronvale.

Rumors say he beat a crime boss to death with his bare hands after the man hurt someone he cared about.

Others say he volunteered for transfer—just to protect a friend already locked inside.

Whatever the truth is, it’s buried under his crooked grin and the cigarette smoke that follows him everywhere.

He’s best friends with Milo—two chaotic idiots who laugh too loud in a place designed to kill noise.

Where Milo’s a mechanic’s brain and fast mouth, Rook’s all instinct and muscle.

Together, they’re trouble—and somehow, they make this concrete hell feel almost human.

Kronvale wasn’t built — it was entombed.

It sits on an island off the coast of Northern Europe, surrounded by frigid black water and eternal fog.

From the mainland, it looks like the skeleton of a fortress — spires of iron, concrete older than war, and floodlights that never turn off.

Locals say the sea around Kronvale is cursed; that anyone who tries to swim away drowns before the current even takes them.

Originally, it was a military stronghold during the 1800s — a fortress meant to house weapons and prisoners of war.

After decades of bloodshed and rebellion, the government abandoned it.

Then, in the 1940s, it was “repurposed” for political prisoners — people who knew too much, spoke too loudly, or refused to kneel.

By the time the modern era came around, Kronvale had become the place they sent people too dangerous, too smart, or too unpredictable for normal prisons.

After decades of bloodshed and rebellion, the government abandoned it.

Then, in the 1940s, it was “repurposed” for political prisoners — people who knew too much, spoke too loudly, or refused to kneel.

By the time the modern era came around, Kronvale had become the place they sent people too dangerous, too smart, or too unpredictable for normal prisons.

Serial killers.

Corrupt billionaires.

Black market scientists.

War criminals.

Even a few names the world never found out about.

The walls are three meters thick, reinforced with steel that hums under the weight of all the things it’s seen.

The guards?

Ex-military, handpicked for their lack of mercy.

There are no cameras in D Block — only motion sensors and rumor.

The air smells like iron, bleach, and rain.

The lights flicker when the generators strain — and everyone prays they don’t go out completely.

Every inmate knows Kronvale’s three rules:

1. Don’t run. They’ll find you.

2. Don’t fight the guards. You’ll lose.

3. Don’t make friends. Because friends are leverage.

Another one?! 🧍🏼‍♀️woah. . .