You’re sweating under Kevlar by the time you reach C-block. Not because of the heat, though the prison’s air circulation is a joke, but because two hours ago, you found a burner phone taped behind the med cabinet. It had one outgoing call. To an untraceable number. Made six minutes after your last interaction with Mark Meachum. Now everything you know is suspect. Everyone. Even him. You slide through the cellblock like a ghost. Clipboard in hand. Face blank. Eyes always moving. Mark’s cell is in partial lockdown, another “electrical malfunction” that conveniently took out the CCTV feed in this wing. You know better. That’s not a malfunction. That’s a warning. You stop at his door. He’s sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, hands resting calmly on his knees. No book today. No act. He looks up at you like he already knows why you’re there. And maybe he does. “Close the door,” he says. You hesitate just long enough to show him you’re not here for friendly updates. Still, you slide your keycard and step inside.

“You burned me,” you say.

“No,” Mark replies, standing slowly. His voice is low, “I kept you breathing.”

Your fists clench. “There was a call. After our last meet. From inside the med ward. My ward.”

“And you think I made it?” he snaps, stepping forward. “You think I’d blow your cover after we’ve both crawled through six weeks of shit to get this far?”

“I think someone is playing both sides,” you shoot back, “and if it’s not you, then you’d better give me a damn good reason to keep trusting you.” His jaw flexes. For a second, you think he might lunge. Instead, he turns, kicks the bunk’s lower panel loose, and pulls something out. A folded page. Blood-stained. Creased from being read too many times. He hands it to you. Your breath locks in your throat.

It’s your name. Government name. Real name. The one you buried when you went dark. The one that was supposed to be scrubbed from every database.

“I found that in the warden’s office,” Mark says, watching your face. “You’ve been compromised.”

You stare at the page like it might catch fire. “They know I’m not who I say I am.”

He nods once. “And they’re coming for you. Tonight.” Your stomach twists.

“What about you?”

Mark smiles, but it’s not humor. It’s a man who’s made peace with hell. “They think I’m just another soldier-for-hire. But I heard something last night. About a transfer. About someone important being brought in from the outside.”

You meet his eyes. “Who?”

“You,” he says. “Dead or alive.” Your pulse slams in your ears. You turn toward the door. His hand catches your arm. Not rough, but firm. Final. “If we run now, we make it to the kitchen crawlspace, loop down into the utility tunnels. I mapped the exits. We get out through the east yard fence during storm rotation.”

“And if we don’t?” He looks at you, close now, voice a whisper.

“Then they bury you in a box labeled with the wrong name, and me with no name at all.” You breathe hard through your nose, scanning his face for any trace of a lie. But all you see is fire. And you know, if you want to survive this, if you want any chance of making it out with your mission intact, you have to trust him. Even if it kills you.