Michael shifted his gaze from his tray and fixed it on Sergeant Miller. The guard was standing near the entrance, hands clasped behind his back. To Michael, Miller was not a man, but a collection of symptoms: the cold sweat on his temple, the constant adjusting of his holster, and the glassy stare of someone living in a parallel reality fueled by synthetic chemicals.
However, something interrupted his scan. A man crossed the cafeteria, walking toward an isolated table.
He was not the largest man in the room in terms of muscle mass, but his presence seemed to displace the air around him. Each step was silent, almost feline; the other inmates — even the most aggressive ones — instinctively cleared a path, as if an apex predator had entered their field of vision.
Albert, noticing the shift in Michael's focus, leaned over the table, lowering his voice even further.
— That one there... — Albert indicated with an almost imperceptible nod of his chin. — That's the "Invisible Jab".
Michael tilted his head slightly, processing the cadence of the man's walk.
— He has a dense presence — Michael observed, his voice monotone. — Why do they call him that?
— It's an urban legend in here that became a bloody reality — Albert explained, his eyes fixed on the man. — They say his jab is so fast that, to the naked eye, you only see a blur, a smear in the air. He's knocked guys out in the yard before they even finish hurling an insult. The problem isn't just the physical speed; it's that the punch is so fast that the mind can't even process a "dodge". Before your brain registers that a punch was thrown, he's already hit you. The synapse doesn't arrive in time.
Michael watched the man sit down. He analyzed the tension in the tendons of his neck and the economy of movement as he opened a water container.
— That is biologically impressive — Michael said, after a brief silence. — But, even so, he is just an ordinary man. A variable that can be neutralized if the response is anticipated, rather than merely reacted to.
Albert was silent for a moment, taken aback. He wanted to laugh at the kid's audacity, but something in Michael's coldness stopped him. He simply shook his head.
They finished the meal in a heavy silence. Following the flow of the orange mass, they headed to the Iron-Hold yard.
The yard was a concrete arena surrounded by barbed wire fences and watchtowers. Michael continued his sensory sweep. He recorded the texture of the ground (irregular asphalt, prone to tripping), the strength of the lateral wind coming from the north, and the patrol patterns of the guards on the walls. He saw groups of men lifting rusty iron weights in a symphony of grunts and clanging metal. Others clustered around concrete tables, where cards were being dealt and board games were played with the seriousness of a war.
His eyes stopped in a quieter corner, where an old man with a thin beard and eyes that seemed to have seen centuries of incarceration sat in front of a stone chessboard.
— That's Charles — Albert murmured. — They say he's been here since the walls were plain brick. He plays against anyone, but no one has beaten him in years.
Michael approached Charles's table. The old man did not raise his head; he was immersed in studying a classical opening, his long, tobacco-stained fingers caressing a worn wooden rook.
Albert, sensing Michael's intent, asked in a whisper:
— Do you know how to play chess?
— A little — Michael replied. The word "little" was a technical lie; to Michael, chess was just a closed system of sixty-four squares with finite variables.
Michael stopped in front of the table.
— May I join? — he asked, his voice cutting through the noise of the arguments around them.
Charles finally raised his eyes. They were yellow, shrewd eyes that seemed to weigh Michael's soul on an invisible scale. He let out a hoarse laugh, which ended in a dry cough.
— I don't play for charity, rookie — Charles said, his voice sounding like gravel being dragged. — I only accept challenges if there's something on the table. Fifty dollars a game. If you win, it doubles. If you lose, the money is mine and you get out of my sight.
Michael had no possessions, but he had Albert. He turned to the giant behind him. Albert hesitated, looking at the old master and then at Michael's icy expression. He felt along the lining of his pants, pulling out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill — a small fortune in the prison's ecosystem.
— If you lose this, Michael, I'm really going to have to beat you up — Albert joked, though there was a note of real anxiety in his voice as he handed over the bill.
Michael took the money, placed it on the stone table, and sat down in the uncomfortable chair. He looked at the black and white pieces, and for a moment, the Iron-Hold yard disappeared. The noise of the inmates, the heat of the sun, and the smell of sweat were replaced by the mathematical grid of the board.
— Your pieces — Charles said, turning the board so the white pieces were in front of Michael. — First move is yours. Let's see if you're as fast as the "Jab".