Michael walked down the corridor with a posture that violently contrasted with the organic disorder of the other prisoners. While the inmates pushed and growled insults, he was a piece moving with precision across an invisible board.
His eyes did not rest. They were sensors capturing the architecture of oppression.
He registered the thickness of the concrete walls (30 centimeters, reinforced with steel mesh) and the pattern of the security cameras: PTZ models with 360-degree rotation, but with a processing delay of 1.2 seconds between cycles. He identified the blind spots — triangles of shadow under the ventilation outlets and in the dead angles of the support beams.
Passing by the shower area, he noticed the water drainage and the acid corrosion on the copper pipes; a structural weakness. He observed the guards: the tension in their shoulders, the caliber of the non-lethal weapons on their belts, and the exact distance of four meters they kept from one another. Every bunk he saw through the open bars was a unit of measurement; every high window, a calculation of height and solar angle. In his mind, Iron-Hold was being converted into a 3D technical schematic, where every screw was cataloged.
Upon entering the cafeteria, the sound was deafening, but Michael filtered it. He positioned himself in line, feeling Albert's massive presence right behind him.
— That one there, with the scar on his neck, that's 'Saber Tooth' — Albert whispered, his voice barely leaving his throat. — Killed three cops before they caught him. The group on the right, near the windows? Those are the 'Crows'. Nobody touches them if they want to wake up tomorrow. They're in for international trafficking and execution.
Michael kept looking ahead. To him, those names were just noise. What mattered was the men's breathing frequency and how they distributed their weight on their legs, revealing who was armed with improvised knives.
When it was his turn at the service counter, Michael stopped.
The cook, a man with weathered skin and calloused hands, extended the tray. Michael did not look at the food. His eyes dropped to the man's hand. Between his thumb and index finger, there was a faded tattoo: a hexagonal symbol intertwined with geometric lines. It was the mark of the "Hive", an elite organization that operated in the shadows of organized crime.
Michael lifted his gaze and locked it on the cook's eyes. For about twelve seconds, time seemed to collapse. Neither of them blinked. In the microcosm of those pupils, Michael read what logic delivered to him: an involuntary dilation at recognition, an imperceptible tremor in the masseter muscle. There was trauma there — the opaque fog of a profound loss, the kind of grief that turns a man into an automaton.
Michael then lowered his gaze slightly to the identification badge pinned to the stained white uniform.
"Francisco Reder".
The name and the symbol were filed away. Michael took the tray without thanking him and began walking through the hall.
Predatory stares followed him. Some inmates stopped chewing, evaluating the "new blood" that walked with such calm. Michael did not give them the benefit of a reaction. He found a table in the back, strategically positioned with his back to a solid wall, but with a clear view of all the emergency exits.
He sat down. Seconds later, the table's structure shuddered when Albert settled in across from him. The giant seemed small under the cafeteria's high ceiling, constantly watching his surroundings.
— You've got guts, or you're crazy — Albert said, poking at the plastic food on his plate. — Staring down Reder like that… he's not just a cook, man. Nobody messes with him.
Michael did not answer. He began eating methodically, each forkful with the same weight and timing.
— Why are you here, Albert? — Michael asked, his voice cutting through the ambient noise with surgical clarity.
Albert hesitated, surprised by the direct question.
— Me? — he let out a heavy sigh. — I did a lot of things I'm not proud of. Killed people I should've and people I shouldn't have. Sold kilos of cocaine to the wrong hands. I was the muscle, you know? The guy who solved problems when words weren't enough. Ended up being betrayed by the people I protected.
Albert wiped the sweat from his forehead and leaned forward.
— And you? — Albert's curiosity was almost childlike now. — What did a guy like you do to end up in the deepest hole in the system? Are you a hitman? Some kind of elite terrorist?
Michael kept chewing, his gaze fixed on an invisible point in the middle of the table. Albert waited, the silence becoming uncomfortable between them.
— You're not much of a talker, huh? — Albert grumbled, leaning back in his chair.
Michael finally set down the plastic utensil. He looked at Albert, not with disdain, but with a neutrality that was, in a way, more frightening.
— There isn't much to say — Michael replied. — Words are often used to fill gaps in reasoning or mask insecurities. I possess neither.
He looked back at the hall, his eyes catching Sergeant Miller entering the cafeteria. The piece he needed to open the first door had just entered his field of view.