He had fought his way to the top.

Within a month after Derek Morgan first stepped into the big room and first heard the eager calls he had shown everybody just whose bitch he was exactly.

His own.

Jason Gideon, a Black man that reminded Morgan a bit of the stories his father had told him about his grandfather, was the leader of the KFC, the African American gang. A group who was quick to open up its arms to him. Gideon saw his potential and before Morgan knew just what had happened he was one of the most esteemed officers the KFC had and everybody knew his place was at Gideon's side.

He was respected.

He was ruthless, but not violent.

He accepted the challenges and left the challengers wallowing in pools of their own blood, often with one or more broken limps.

He was friendly, but not openly so.

He accepted offers of friendship but he didn't seek them out. When Perez Garcia, as the first one, had walked up to him after a friendly game of basket between the Taco Loco and KFC and offered his hand to the sweaty black man and called him Black Adonis, all in hearing range held their breath.

Then Morgan laughed and shook the hand and called Garcia 'Baby Boy'.

He was beautiful.

Women had turned their heads after him when he passed them on the streets and men did the same in the prison. They saw his flawless skin and chiseled face, his bulging muscles and confident stride. Young boys saw him and saw the possible safety he posed and they offered themselves and their bodies but Morgan turned them down, every single one of them.

He was scarred.

He had been betrayed by the one man he had thought was on his side in his fight against the world.

So he distanced himself and kept by Gideon's side, watching the seasoned man and acting out his requests.

He wasn't happy, he never suspected to be again, but he was content with where he was.

And then Gideon was stabbed.

The weapon was a sharpened toothbrush and the stabber hit him directly in the heart. He had tried to run after but a new guy, Matthew Black, and a few of his friends hunted him down and beat him to death.

Morgan had been the obvious choice to take over, there had been hardly any disturbances, and Morgan was allowed a shocking amount of freedom afterward. He suspected it was director Strauss's way of showing appreciation for keeping it on the down low.

So he kept up. Kept cool. Kept Black at his side to show appreciation of his brisk reaction. Kept friendly-ish relations with the other groups, except of course the damn Nazis.

His Baby Boy and the Taco Loco was great weight on the side of balance and Morgan was proud to see, as time passed, that his steady temper was keeping the peace more effectively than Gideon ever had. His pride had worked against him on occasion, and Morgan was nothing if not observant and a fast learner.

His life had been as close to perfect as a life could get when in prison. The loneliness still ripped him apart when he lied awake in the nights, especially after a visit from his mother or one of his sisters, and listened to the ongoings around him.

He ached for company. Not just a warm body in the night, but for tenderness and companionship. For something the bastard Prentiss had with his blond boy over at the White Bread.

On some level, Morgan reckoned he was actually looking for that something special. Searching for some sort of potential in every new person he met, and all the men he had known for so long. The scarring was still there, but it had faded with time. His fears didn't cripple him as much.

And then one day.

Standing in his cell, languidly cruising the new fish with all the other, hardened inmates.

A pair of big, brown, horribly innocent and frightened eyes stared right back at him, and Morgan could have sworn that pretty young thing with the stupid floppy hair had just stared into his soul.

And he was pretty fucking sure he had seen more potential than he could ever have dreamed of.