They didn’t realize that time was the only tool I actually needed.
I sat on the edge of the cot, posture relaxed, bare feet on cold concrete, the picture of a man who’d accepted his fate. Inside, every nerve was keyed to a ticking countdown only I could hear.
Twenty-three minutes until shift change.
The late-afternoon swap was always sloppier. Men were tired. They were already thinking about food. Whoever designed the schedule seemed to like symmetry more than security. It meant the overlap between outgoing and incoming pairs left one blind spot…
Thirty seconds when no one was looking directly at my door.
Thirty seconds for someone else was nothing.
For me, it was a lifetime.
The key was getting the door open in those thirty seconds. And for that, all I needed was access to the guard who delivered my food. Not his keys. Not his gun. Just his hand.
He was older. The kind of man who’d seen enough to grow careless. He slid the tray through the slot at the bottom of the door three times a day, the smell of bland protein and overcooked rice drifting into the cell like a sad joke. Once, on the second day he was assigned to me, his fingers came too far inside. Just two knuckles too far. Enough for me to grab them if I wanted to.
I didn’t though. The timing wasn’t right then.
My plan now was simple: catch the old man’s wrist when he slid the tray in, hurt him just enough to make him react, let him open the door a crack to come in and teach me a lesson, then take him down fast and quiet. Then I’d replace him in the hallway.
Crude, yes. But effective. Violence usually is.
Footsteps started at the far end of the corridor—three sets. Two light, one heavier.
That was wrong.
Usually, it was only two.
Fuck.
My shoulders tensed.
The door lock buzzed. Not the soft, short buzz of the tray slot. The longer, deeper one of a full magnetic release. The hair on the back of my neck rose.
The door opened.
The commander stepped inside, flanked by two guards.
“Well,” I muttered. “You’ve ruined my whole afternoon.”
He wore an impeccable suit as always—tailored gray, crisp white shirt, tie knotted with irritating meticulousness.
“Took a lot to deal with your creativity, I hear,” he grumbled.
“You left me very little to work with,” I said. “I did my best with limited materials though.”
He smiled thinly. “We considered removing the bed entirely.”
“You should have. I can do a lot of damage with four corners and bad intentions.”
One of the guards stiffened, his grasp tightening on his weapon.
The commander flicked a glance at him and the man stilled. Then he turned back to me.
“You know why I’m here, Mr. Dragunov.”
“I was hoping it was a social call.”
