Michael lay down on the metal bed, his face turned toward the concrete ceiling. To any outside observer, he appeared to be at rest, but behind his eyelids, the world was an unceasing flow of data. He revisited every second since his arrest, processing the chemical composition of the sedative, the angle of the "hidden detail" on Starling Street and the variables of the courtroom.
Beside him, a guttural sound of sudden inspiration broke the silence. Albert awoke.
The giant tried to get up quickly, but his body failed. He felt his neck, sensing the numbness where Michael's fingers had pressed. He looked at the man lying on the bunk with a terror he had never felt in all his years of incarceration. It was not the fear of a fighter, but the instinctive dread of something he could not comprehend.
— What... what did you do to me? — Albert's voice came out hoarse, trembling.
Michael did not turn. He kept looking at the ceiling.
— I am not going to hit you again, Albert — Michael said, his voice flat and devoid of threat. — As long as you do not disrupt my processing. Otherwise, the next interruption of your blood flow will be permanent.
Albert swallowed hard, backing away until his back touched the ballistic glass. He realized that the hierarchy of cell 47 had been destroyed and rebuilt in seconds.
— Who are you, man? — Albert murmured.
— A new variable. Now, tell me about Iron-Hold. Who governs the blocks? Who are the individuals with the greatest potential for chaos?
Albert, still trembling, began to speak. He described the predatory ecology of the prison: he talked about "The Butcher", who controlled the supply of improvised weapons in Block C; he mentioned the group of "Nationalists" who dominated the yard; and the corrupt officers who turned a blind eye in exchange for crypto payments. He painted the map of power, believing that Michael was just trying to survive.
— And then? — Albert asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead. — What are you going to do with all this? You're FBI, right? Going to try for a deal?
Michael finally turned his face toward him. He did not use words. His eyelids began to move in a specific, precise and rhythmic cadence.
Left blink. Left blink. Pause.
Right blink. Left blink. Fast.
Albert frowned, but soon his eyes widened. Before being a gang enforcer, he had worked as a radio operator and knew visual coding systems and morse. The sequence Michael executed was an overlay of codes that formed a direct message in the subconscious of anyone who knew how to read.
Albert deciphered the final sentence: "I AM GOING TO ESCAPE FROM THIS PRISON."
— Escape? — Albert whispered, incredulous. — Nobody gets out of Iron-Hold. The system is armored. How are you going to do that alone?
— I will not be alone — Michael replied, sitting up again. — I am going to use every person in this prison. Every inmate, every cook and every officer will be a piece in my combustion engine.
Albert let out a nervous laugh.
— You're crazy. The guards here are machines. The one who brought you in, Sergeant Miller... the guy is a war hero, hardliner.
— The sergeant who escorted me? — Michael tilted his head slightly. — That man is a trafficker of synthetic narcotics and has committed at least one unregistered homicide.
Albert froze.
— What do you mean? What are you talking about? He's the most respected guard in the sector. How can you know something like that if you just got here?
Michael fixed his eyes on Albert's, and for the first time, the giant felt he was being scanned by a laser.
— I read people, Albert. When I looked at him, I noticed the anomalous dilation of his pupils, incompatible with the fluorescent light, suggesting chronic use or contact with residue. The way he moves, favoring weight on his left hip to hide the withdrawal tremor, and the microexpression of panic when I mentioned laboratory records... Everything about him screams guilt and addiction. He is not a guard, Albert. He is a flaw in the system. And I am going to use that flaw to open the first door.