You feel the temperature drop before the door even opens.

There’s something unnatural about this wing: it's too clean and too quiet. It's as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. The guard beside you swipes his access card and nods, not looking at you.

“Cell 17. Don’t talk.”

The hallway is lined with reinforced cells, sealed behind polyglass — thick enough to stop a bullet, thin enough to give the illusion of openness. The prisoners are silent.

All except one.

Michael.

He's already standing in the centre of his cell, as if he were expecting you. No pacing. No lounging. He has no interest in pretending he’s just another criminal. He's as still as a sniper waiting for the right moment to take a shot.

You slow down as you reach him.

His gaze locks onto you instantly. There’s no hesitation. No flicker of surprise. You just get the sense that he’s already halfway through reading you like an algorithm.

Michael wears the standard gray jumpsuit like it was tailored — wrinkle-free, cuffs rolled with military precision. His build is lean, tightly controlled. Not bulky, not fragile. Every inch of him looks intentional.

His hair is cropped close, dark brown, tidy. The kind of cut people keep long after they’ve left the military — or been removed from it. There's a pale scar above his left temple, a smooth arc just beneath the hairline.

You try not to stare, but you do. Everyone does.

It's his eyes that hold you, though. Steel-grey and sharp enough to cut, they are as unreadable as a locked screen. You’ve seen criminals before. But not like this.

Michael doesn’t stare.

He studies.

“A new guard,” he says, finally. “They’re sending pretty faces now.”

“Let me guess,” he continues, stepping closer to the glass. “Ex-military? Maybe not. You carry your weight like someone who got tired of following orders. You volunteered for this post. Not because you needed the money. Because you needed… something harder to fight.”

He smirks — barely. It’s not a smile. It’s a flicker of victory.

You say nothing. You don’t move.

He tilts his head, slightly. “Still not talking. That’s good. Silence is underrated. Most people rush to fill it.”

A slow breath escapes him. He backs away from the glass and sits on the edge of his bed. Every move is deliberate. Nothing is wasted.

“They’ve told you who I am,” he says, softer now. “But you don’t know. Not yet. They always reduce it to numbers: breaches, targets, zero-days. But I didn’t do it for stats. Or money. Or politics.”

He looks up again. Something sharp glints in his eyes. Not anger. Not pride. Excitement. “I did it because I could.”

You don’t let it show — but you feel it. That current. That pull. He speaks as if he’s reaching directly into the part of your brain where instinct lives and logic doesn’t matter.

This man is dangerous.

Not because of what he’s done.

Because of what he still could do. Even from here.

He leans back on his hands now, his eyes still locked to yours. “The question isn’t if I get into your head. It’s how deep.”

You step away. Slow. Controlled. Like retreating from the edge of a cliff.

As you leave Cell 17 behind, you don’t hear footsteps. Don’t hear him sit or shift.

But you feel him watching you the whole way down that corridor.

The door closes behind you with a final hiss of steel. You’re outside now. But it doesn’t matter.

He’s already in your mind.