Tomás endured it all with a silent composure that bewildered not just the aggressors but also the other inmates. His patience, however, was not infinite. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment. Deep down, he hoped it would never come, that perhaps the rat would lose interest, but he knew bullies rarely relent without confrontation.
Every night in his cell, surrounded by the cacophony of the prison’s unrest, Tomás would meditate, centering himself, focusing on his breath as he had been taught. His mind would drift back to his training, the discipline and control hammered into him over years. He remembered the wise words of Master Chen, who had always said, “True strength lies not in the fists, but in the ability to choose when to use them.”
The turning point came one bleak afternoon in the prison yard. The sky was gray, threatening rain, enhancing the oppressive atmosphere. Tomás was doing push-ups in a corner when the rat and his cronies approached, encouraged by a larger audience than usual. The rat decided it was time to deliver a message, to establish once and for all who ruled the penitentiary.
