The compound looms like a monolith of iron and silence, its concrete skin slick with winter damp. The air is sharp—acidic with cold, metallic with tension. You slip between shadows, each step a careful negotiation with the darkness. Your breath curls in the air behind you, fleeting and nervous.

Around the corner, a flashlight arcs across the yard—a cold, flickering eye scanning for any hint of movement. You freeze, heart hammering like a war drum in your chest. Muscles lock, thoughts scatter. You can hear the guard’s boots crunch on gravel, echoing louder than they should. The silence between each step is almost worse than the noise.

Seconds stretch into lifetime, then pass. The beam turns away. The guard moves on.

You let your breath out slow, chest tight, adrenaline sharp and humming in your bloodstream like static. You reach inside your coat and pull out a homemade EMP—jury-rigged from stolen tech and sheer desperation. It’s small. Ugly. Humming already.

You crouch by the control panel beside the outer security gate. Your hands tremble—whether from fear, cold, or the weight of everything riding on this moment, you don’t know. Probably all three. You press the device into place. It sparks, buzzes, pulses with unstable life.

Click.

The yard lights die all at once, like snuffed candles.

The darkness is immediate and complete. You push the heavy door open, its rusted hinges groaning like something waking from a long, bad dream. Inside, the prison is a different kind of quiet—dense and breathing. Somewhere above, inmates howl and scream, metal doors bang, someone laughs. A long, unhinged kind of laugh that echoes off concrete and feels like it’s crawling up your spine.

You move quickly down the corridor, each step quick and silent. You feel the tension in your back, like something coiled and watching. Your fingers brush the keycard in your pocket—still there. Still your lifeline. You’ve come too far to turn back now.

You stop at his door.

It looks like any other—cold steel, reinforced glass, thick with the stink of bleach and rust. But you feel it before you even open it. That pressure in the air. That subtle vibration under your skin, like a tuning fork held too close to bone. Your hand shakes as you swipe the keycard. The lock clicks. The door opens with a hydraulic hiss, revealing the caged chaos inside.

He’s sitting on the edge of his cot, back hunched, elbows on his knees like he’s been waiting. Wild red hair hangs in disheveled waves, greasy and matted at the ends. His skin is ghost-pale against the darkness—almost luminous. But it's his eyes that freeze you. Not just red. Alive. Lit from within, like flame behind stained glass. Wide, alert and hungry.

He grins when he sees you. Slow. Crooked. All teeth.

You swallow, throat dry. The door hisses shut behind you. You can feel the moment tighten like a noose.

“I’m here to get you out,” you say, keeping your voice steady, your jaw tight. “I need your help.”

His smile widens, and he leans forward, hands dangling between his knees. You half expect claws.

“Oh, need, huh?” he says, his voice syrupy-slow and southern-fried, like someone telling bedtime stories with a knife in hand. “That’s a strong word. Strong like... stupid. You know who I am, pipsqueak?”

“I know exactly who you are.”

“You say that, but you’re still standing there in the lion’s den, waving your red flag. Bold.” He tilts his head, the fluorescent light above flickering just enough to catch the sharpness in his cheekbones. “You come to preach redemption, or just light the fuse?”