Time has a curious way of shaping people.
Trapped here in Fox River, my eyes scanning every inch of this sweltering courtyard, it's easy to think that it's all about now. The concrete beneath my feet, the tension in the air, the hungry gazes of predators in every direction. But the truth is, this moment… it didn't start today. It started long ago. Every word, every look, every piece I've moved outside these bars, before I've even walked through these gates, has led me to this moment.
And now, I'm about to talk to Lincoln. My brother. The man I risked everything for.
But this conversation... It's more than just a plan to escape. It's the result of months of preparation. Moves that no one saw coming. Movements that not even Lincoln would know about, but that could save not only our lives... but the lives of many others.
I think about Gretchen.
The strength in her eyes, the mask of brutality hiding layers of something much more human. I had pulled a thread in that coffee. Subtle, but firm. Something that, in time, I knew would untie knots Gretchen herself didn't know she was carrying. A dangerous but loyal ally…if I could control her storms.
Mahone… That was another animal. Cold, calculating, but a slave to his own vices and ghosts. I planted the seed early. Not to win immediately, but to weaken his walls. Because when I left here, I knew he would be one of the hunters on the prowl. I had to make him hesitate on the right day. A second was all it took. And I would take that second to win.
And Kellerman… Ah, Kellerman.
A man who danced the line between monster and servant. I saw him for what he truly was. And I made him see himself, too. Because men like him… don't fall by force. They fall when they realize they are more than the chains that bind them. And I began to cut those chains. Slowly, carefully.
I take a deep breath.
Each of these pieces moves now, out of sight of everyone here.
They don't know it yet... But they all revolve around me.
Lincoln is waiting for me.
He needs to understand the plan. Not just the route out… But what comes next. Because running away isn't the end. It's just the first step. And I can't allow anything – anything – to go wrong.
This prison thinks it has me. They think I'm just another one.
But the board is mine.
And when this game is over… I will be free. With all those I chose by my side.
And the world will never have us back.
I take my first step toward Lincoln, the weight of the future and the past colliding in my chest. And I begin to speak.
Flashback - Months Before Arrest
Chicago smelled of rust and stale coffee on the streets. Every corner brought stories of haste and fatigue, but to me, everything seemed to slow down. Every detail, every person, every breath... everything was a potential piece on the board I was beginning to assemble.
I already knew that entering Fox River was just the first step. Escaping was another. But surviving out there? That required unseen preparation.
The preparations for the escape from Fox River went far beyond the prison walls. Every brick, every screw I would turn, every man I manipulated inside… all of it would only have value if the world outside was under control.
An escape is not just about escaping from behind bars. It crosses the streets, the faces, the whispers. It infiltrates the lives of those who will one day be in my path.
I knew who our enemies would be. The Company. Agents like Kellerman and, most importantly, Alexander Mahone. The man who would stalk each of us like a predator. Then there was Gretchen Morgan… a woman capable of anything, who played dirty like no one else. And General Krantz… a name that carries weight, power and danger. The man behind the Company, the invisible figure who pulls the strings of governments and lives as if they were mere puppets. Facing him will not be like dealing with Fox River guards or common criminals. This man is a strategist, cold and ruthless, who sees men as disposable pieces on a war board. He does not waver, does not hesitate. Mistakes in front of him mean death.
I couldn't wait to confront them later. I needed to get ahead of them. I needed to reach them before they even knew I existed.
And so, on that cloudy morning, I began to weave my net.
---
Chicago suburb
The house was modest. A simple garden, toys scattered around, a makeshift clothesline. I watched it from afar for a few hours before approaching it. I knew everything about it.
Rita Morgan. Gretchen's older sister. Widowed. "Mother" to a little girl named Emily. Worked part-time as a receptionist at a dental clinic. Loyal to her family, but distant from the shadows her sister inhabited.
I watched her for days. I knew her routine. I knew where her daughter studied, I knew the financial difficulties she faced.
I knew that Gretchen visited her occasionally, always quickly, almost furtively.
But most importantly… I knew what Rita meant to Gretchen.
An anchor.
Gretchen was a storm in the shape of a woman. Trained, molded, and in many ways broken by the Company. But Rita and Emily were the chink in her armor. The part that made her human. And every soldier, no matter how brutal, fears losing the thing that reminds them of who they once were.
It was the right link.
I approached slowly. She was dressed casually, with a polite smile on her face. I rang the doorbell. She opened the door, holding a towel and looking tired but kind.
"Yes?"
"Good morning. My name is Michael Scofield. I'm a structural engineer. I work on social housing projects here in Chicago. I heard you have some structural problems on this street… cracks, leaks…"
She raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but didn't close the door.
"Okay... And what does that have to do with me?"
I tilted my head, measuring my words.
"To be honest, Rita... I'm not here just for the projects. I need to talk about your sister. Gretchen."
She froze. The name made the room heavy.
"I... don't know what you're talking about."
"You know, yes. And I didn't come here to cause you trouble. On the contrary. I want to protect you. And Emily."
Her eyes sparkled for a moment. Maternal instinct. I hit the weak spot.
"What do you want with Gretchen?"
"A conversation. No threats. No violence. Just words."
She hesitated. Assessing whether I was a danger or whether I was being sincere.
"What if I say no?"
"I'm leaving. But if Gretchen ever shows up here… you'll remember me. And you'll wonder if I could have helped you."
I let the silence work for me. She took a deep breath.
"I can't promise anything…"
"I just need you to pass on a message."
I took out a card with a disposable number and handed it over.
"Tell her someone knows about Scylla. She'll understand."
Rita's eyes widened. It was obvious she didn't know what that meant, but she could tell I wasn't bluffing.
"I... I'll let you know."
"That's all I ask. And… take care of Emily."
I turned my back and left. I knew that the storm would come soon.
---
Two Days Later – Meeting Gretchen
It was a run-down diner on the side of the highway. Perfect for meetings that weren't meant to be noticed. Gretchen got there before me. Dark jeans, leather jacket. Rigid posture, sharp gaze. The kind of woman who carried too many wounds to trust anyone.
I sat across from her, ordering a coffee. She didn't touch her cup.
"You've got nerve, Scofield. Messing with my sister."
I held her gaze.
"I didn't mess with her. I protected her."
"Scylla... How the hell do you know that?"
"I know more than I should. And I know that soon I will be at war with people who also know too much."
She pressed her lips together. She didn't like being on the defensive.
"I know Krantz uses you like a disposable piece. And I know you hate it. You became what he wanted, but you lost something along the way... And all that's left is your sister. Your niece —yourdaughter— they're the ones holding you together in this world. They're the ones reminding you...that you're still human."
Her eyes flashed for a moment, anger and truth mixed together.
But more than that, deep down, a feeling of dread gripped her. How the hell did someone like Michael Scofield know all this?
"Are you threatening me?"
"No. I'm giving you a choice. One day… when the tables turn, and I leave Fox River… you'll be faced with a decision. Help me… or hunt me."
She leaned forward, anger replaced by curiosity.
"You haven't even entered Fox River and you're already thinking about leaving?"
"I don't fight battles I can't win."
She laughed lightly. Sarcasticly.
"You're either crazy... or you're dangerous."
"A little bit of both."
She took a sip of her coffee. For the first time, she felt slightly comfortable.
"What if I told you that when that day comes, I'd rather hunt you?"
I leaned forward.
"I know where your sister lives. I know where your "niece" goes to school. I will never hurt them. Never. But if the Company finds out that someone like me has this information... they won't show the same mercy."
She stood still.
"I can be your best protection... or the spark that lights the fire. Your choice."
She analyzed me for long seconds.
"When that day comes... I want to know exactly what you have to offer me."
"You will know."
I lean back in my chair, my eyes fixed on hers but remaining calm, as if nothing is urgently important. The coffee between us is not a point of tension, it is merely a strategic pause, a battlefield in disguise. She is careful, as always, but her eyes still watch me, trying to figure out my intentions.
"I knew you were smart," I begin, letting the conversation flow, "but I didn't know you also knew how to pick good places to hide."
She smiles in a controlled manner, trying to maintain her posture, but something in her eyes, that fleeting sparkle, betrays that my words are resonating with her.
"Do you really think I'm hiding?" Her question has a curious tone, but also a hint of challenge.
I smile lightly, my voice soft but with undeniable confidence. "I don't believe in hiding places, Gretchen. Only in places where people can get lost. Or maybe find what they didn't know they were looking for."
She hesitates for a moment, her face softly illuminated by the light coming through the café window. I feel her interest grow, as if she's navigating a game of which I am the master.
+10 charm
Hmm, interesting.
"You are more dangerous than I thought"
She says, her voice low but with a hint of amusement.
"And I'm just another piece on your board, is that it?"
I give a quick smile, the tension between us broken by the lightness of the moment, but the impact of each word is not lost.
"Don't worry, Gretchen. In my game, everyone has an important role. You just have to decide which one you want to play."
She stands, the tension between us growing as she takes the final step, walking away, but before she does, her eyes meet mine.
"I don't think this conversation is over yet, Michael," she says, and I can see she's intrigued.
"It's not over at all," I reply, my voice as soft as before.
"But you know where to find me."
She leaves, and I stand there, staring at the door. One more move, one more piece in the game. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that when it comes to Gretchen, the subtlest moves are the most powerful.
---
Some time after meeting Gretchen, I began laying the groundwork for another target.
Alexander Mahone.
This name wasn't just a threat in the future. It was a problem that needed to be prepared for right now.
Mahone was no ordinary man. He was methodical, obsessed, and most of all…broken. I knew what this hunt for fugitives would do to him. I knew the toll the guilt and the pills would take. And if I wanted to survive, it wasn't enough to just hide from him when it all started. I had to get inside his head…before he got inside mine.
But unlike Gretchen, Mahone wasn't someone I could manipulate with pain or emotion. He was a man driven by a need for control. He hunted to feel in control, to maintain the illusion that he had dominion over chaos. And I needed to plant doubt in that control… long before we were enemies.
That's why I approached him in the most subtle way possible. Without exposing myself. Without him even knowing I existed.
I made indirect contact, using a lawyer who did services for federal agencies. He owed a friend of mine a favor. And I asked him to mention Mahone's name in "casual" conversation at a legal event.
"Agent Mahone has eyes on everything...or at least he thinks he does. But I hear that sometimes the past itself looks back."
A vague phrase. No context. A bait thrown in the middle of glasses of wine and conversations about politics.
Days later, on another occasion, I paid a retired police officer to approach an acquaintance of Mahone's and ask a subtle question:
"Have you ever heard the name Oscar Shales again? Or is he still just a ghost?"
That name...it was the ghost Mahone carried. The man he killed and buried in his garden. The mistake he covered up with layers of perfection.
I didn't need to threaten him. I didn't need him to see me as an enemy. I just needed to make a small fissure start to form deep inside his mind.
A crack of paranoia.
I knew Mahone was the type who left nothing to chance. Any whisper about Shales would force him to rummage through his own backyard. He would investigate, go back to the records, look over his shoulder... all in silence, without telling anyone. Because admitting weakness was never an option for him.
That's what I wanted.
It wasn't about beating him now. It was about infiltrating. About planting a seed that would germinate when the inevitable clash happened.
When Mahone hunted me, he would think he was in control.
But actually... I would have been on his mind long before that.
Because beating men like him... isn't about running away.
It's about making sure they never know where the next blow is coming from.
---
The plan was always clear in my mind. The five million from Westmoreland, buried under the scorching heat of the Tooele Desert in Utah. In the series, that money almost cost us everything. So much effort… So many complications… And in the end, it slipped through our fingers like sand.
This time, it would be different.
I was determined to make this upcoming hunt a thorough and safe one. I couldn't allow greed, mishaps, and disorder to tarnish what was supposed to be our fresh start after the escape.
I started with the basics: information. Every detail about that abandoned airfield, every inch of the property, updated maps, information about owners, police activity in the area. I used discreet contacts from outside, people who owed me favors, making sure my name never came up.
I hired a local surveyor to do an inspection under the guise of mining interests. He mapped the area for me, providing exact coordinates and information about ground conditions. I wanted to know if the terrain had changed since Westmoreland had hidden the money.
Next, I focused on tools. In the other life, we improvised. Shovels, pipes… Exposed and vulnerable. I needed to make sure that when the time came, we would be prepared. I arranged for the purchase and concealment of specific tools: military-grade folding shovels, metal-detecting equipment, tarps to cover excavations if necessary. All stored in a secure warehouse rented under another name, a few kilometers from the airfield.
I also thought about escape routes. The arrival and the departure. Nothing could be left to chance. I identified back roads, unpatrolled paths, possible police checkpoints. I planned alternative routes and even established contacts with local residents who could serve as support points in emergencies, without ever knowing the real reason.
Another bitter lesson from my past life was trusting too much in the wrong places. This time, I would keep the stakes to a minimum. Only Lincoln and I would access the place. The others didn't even need to know the money was there. Every extra piece of information is a weapon against us.
Finally, I thought of the worst-case scenario: the money was gone. Even though I knew from Westmoreland that no one had ever found the trunk, I couldn't be naive. I came up with a backup plan: fake accounts and fake transactions to hide some of the money we might make in the future. And if I needed to, I would have enough money to disappear and start over. This time, we wouldn't be hostages to fate.
I took a deep breath as I reviewed all the steps. I had more control now. I had more knowledge. But most of all, I had time and planning on my side.
This time, the Utah desert would not defeat us.
---
Next target: Paul Kellerman.
In the other life, he was my enemy... and then, one of the most unlikely pieces that helped me secure my freedom. And in the end, he died for it. For doing the right thing.
Most would remember him as a ruthless man, an enforcer of President Reynolds and the Company's will. But I saw beyond that. I knew that behind the mask of blind loyalty and ruthless methods was a man who sought redemption. Who wanted to be more than a puppet.
This was the Kellerman I needed to reach. Not the hound...but the man.
So I decided to start the only way that could work: by touching on what he was trying to hide... his fatigue.
I knew where he lived. I knew the coffee shop he frequented in his rare moments of free time, always alone, his gaze lost in thought.
That's where I would make contact.
Not as Michael Scofield. Not as someone who needed him. But as someone who understood him.
I sat two tables away. Black coffee, open newspaper. I watched.
He arrived, punctual as always. His dress shirt was impeccable, but his eyes... exhausted.
After a few minutes, I made the move. I stood up, walking to the counter to get another coffee.
"On the house"
I told the attendant, pointing discreetly at Kellerman.
He noticed. He stared at me. I raised my glass and gave a slight smile. Simple, casual.
That was the beginning.
When I left, I passed by him and, without looking directly, I let a sentence slip out, almost as if I was talking to myself:
"There are days when it seems like the whole world wants to rip a piece of us apart, right?"
He looked up, surprised. But he didn't answer. He just watched me.
That's what I wanted. To plant the idea: Someone sees what I carry.
In the following days, I repeated this process. Always discreetly. Small kindnesses, comments that showed empathy for the burden he carried. Nothing explicit, nothing that sounded like interest.
I was building trust without him realizing it.
After all, men like Kellerman... don't trust words. They trust feelings. And I needed him to feel that around me, he didn't have to be the executioner. He could be... human.
That was my real plan: not to break Kellerman by force... but to free him from his own invisible prison.
Because I knew... when this man believed there was someone who really saw him... he would move mountains for me.
Days passed, and as I repeated the same ritual, Kellerman began to notice. The chance encounters, the quiet smiles, the glances that were more than just pleasantries. I knew he wasn't stupid. He knew I was watching. He also knew that I knew what he carried, what he had lost . . . and what he still feared losing.
In the third week, he finally broke. In the same cafe, after a long look from me, he let out a sentence.
"You are not like the others."
That was it. That was all I needed. Not a cry for help. Not a word of reassurance. But the simple acknowledgement that he sensed something different about me. Something that touched him without rushing, without pressing.
I answered without hesitation, with the same calm I always demonstrated.
"And you're not like the others either, Kellerman."
The answer was silence. He watched me, and for a moment, I could see the dilemma in his eyes. He wanted more. He wanted to be more than just a pawn in the game, and I knew that. But he was still trapped in his own morality, in the guilt of being what he was.
---
Michael watched me, a calculated stillness, as if he knew I was about to switch sides, but not in an obvious way. He knew it would be a game of patience, of strategic manipulation. The Company had never known how astute he was at reading the people around him.
Kellerman was an agent of the Company, but his loyalty was already beginning to waver. It didn't take much to see that, the weariness in the lines of his face, the way he stared at the computer screen as if he were considering something other than the orders he was being given. Maybe a man like him was wondering where along the road he had lost his humanity.
And that was exactly what I was going to explore.
"You think you can control everything, Kellerman? I've seen what happens to those who believe they are immune to their own humanity," I said casually, giving him an enigmatic smile as I leaned against the wall, in the position of someone who knew more than he let on.
He looked at me, but said nothing. Tension was in the air.
"I know how the Company works, you know. But I also know about you. What you've lost. What you're trying to fix. I'm not an enemy, Kellerman. I'm a chance. And you're not exactly in a position of power here. Not anymore."
He frowned, trying to figure out if I actually knew something or if I was playing a trick. I could tell he was watching me, weighing my words, like I was a sharp blade he wasn't sure he wanted to hold.
"You are going down a very dangerous path, Michael. The Company will not let this go."
He replied, his voice low but firm. I knew he was trying to intimidate, but what he didn't know was that he was giving me exactly the kind of answer I wanted.
"I'm not going down any road, Kellerman. I'm already on the road. What you need to decide is: Are you going to help me get where I want to go, or are you going to regret not giving me this opportunity?"
The taunt was on the tip of his tongue, but the game was just beginning. I could see he was beginning to doubt everything, his loyalty to the Company, everything he believed to be right.
He sighed heavily, almost as if he knew what was coming next but didn't want to admit it. I was backing him into a corner, without him realizing that I was already making the choices for him.
"I'm not getting involved in this. The Company will destroy you, Michael, if you keep playing this game."
"Make no mistake, Kellerman. The Company doesn't control anyone. They think they do, but I've seen it before. People like you, who do the dirty work, make themselves expendable. They don't protect you. I protect you. And if you join me, I can guarantee you that you'll have more control over your life than anyone else can give you."
He looked at me with an expression that was a mixture of doubt and anger. It was the exact moment for me to cast the bait.
"You've seen what happens to men who blindly follow orders. I've seen you, Kellerman. I've seen the anguish in your eyes when you realized what was happening. I'm not asking you to trust me, I'm just asking you to recognize that the chances you have now won't come around twice."
He looked conflicted, and I knew I didn't have much time left. The pressure was mounting, and the most logical option would be to follow my proposal. Like a cornered animal, he had no choice but to ally himself with me.
"I can give you a way out, Paul,"
i said calmly.
"And if you join me now, I can guarantee that your journey from here on out will be your own, without the Company, without anyone telling you what to do."
There was a moment of silence. Finally, he spoke.
"I don't know if I can trust you."
"I'm not your Company, Kellerman. And I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to trust yourself."
The silence stretched on, but I knew the groundwork was being prepared. He still had his reservations, but now, he knew the choice was in his hands. I was pulling him to my side, and there was no way out of it. What remained was only a matter of time.
---
As Kellerman was being carefully probed, another piece of the future began to form in my mind.
Sheba.
I met her in the other life. A strong, fearless woman who defied oppressors and fought for her people in Yemen. She would become a vital ally years later, when my path led me to that hellish prison on Ogygia.
But now... I had the chance to bring her to my board before chaos began.
He knew that trying to involve her too deeply at this point would be rash. Sheba was not someone who was easy to manipulate. She followed her own principles, and trying to use her without respecting those values would be a fatal mistake.
So I opted for the simplest route: initial contact.
Using a fictitious identity and a humanitarian connection, I sent an email disguised as an anonymous donation to the organization she led, offering financial support to families affected by the civil war.
In the message, I left something more.
A short but calculated sentence:
"There are battles we cannot win alone. But sometimes it is in unlikely alliances that we find our true strength."
It was vague enough not to arouse suspicion, but it carried the seed of what I knew Sheba valued: unity and resistance.
I didn't need her to trust me now. I just needed to be remembered as a hand outstretched in the dark. A name that, when chaos came, she would regard not as a threat…but as hope.
---
Finally, there was one enemy that haunted me more than all.
Jacob Anton Ness.
Poseidon.
In the series, he disguised himself as an ally and destroyed everything I loved. He manipulated, betrayed, and forced me to crawl into the shadows, away from my son, from Sara... from the life I fought so hard to build.
This time, he wouldn't catch me off guard.
But Jacob was different from Kellerman or Mahone. He wasn't an executioner. He was an architect. A man who built invisible webs and moved puppets without their knowing.
Fighting Poseidon required more than caution. It required sabotage.
So I started before he even imagined my existence.
My first move was to infiltrate a tracker into the CIA's internal monitoring system, via a contact at Langley who owed a favor to an old acquaintance of mine. The tracker was inconspicuous, designed only to alert me if the name "Jacob Anton Ness" appeared in any classified reports.
I didn't want to attack him. Not yet.
I wanted to know every step he took. Every contact he made. Every crack that could be exploited.
And, at the same time, I began to build barriers around the very thing he would try to destroy: my future family.
I left sealed instructions with a trusted ally in Chicago, which were only to be opened if something happened to me. They contained details about Sara Tancredi, my unborn child, and the threats that would be made against them.
Because this time... Poseidon wouldn't find easy targets.
This time, he would find someone who was already waiting for him, in the shadows.
Prepared.
Calculating.
And ready to bury him.
---
As I walked out of the last café where I finished my Poseidon briefing, a feeling came over me.
I was assembling an invisible army. Planting seeds that would only bloom in the future.
But that was the only way to win.
Because true freedom... never comes with just escape.
It comes with control. Over the present... and over what's to come.
That night, looking at my reflection in the mirror, I understood that there was no turning back.
I was messing with forces that could crush me. People who snuffed out lives like someone stubbing out a cigarette.
But I couldn't fail. Because Lincoln needed me.
And most of all, I had a plan.
End of Flashback
"You saw the plants."
"Better than that… I have them in me."
I said with a smile, turning around and showing my tattoos, the plan etched into my skin.
"Are you kidding me… Should I be seeing something?"
Lincoln whispers, almost in disbelief.
I nodded slowly, a slight smile on the corner of my mouth, mixing confidence and tension. The conversation had gone exactly as it did in the series, it was really fun to replicate these dialogues as a theater, but it was also crucial to progressing further.
"Take a closer look. I've studied this prison for months. Every inch. Every exit. Every weakness. And I brought it with me... here."
I point to my own body. Sitting on the bench, his eyes roam over the intricate tangle of lines, numbers, and symbols that intertwine across my skin. The tattoo. My masterpiece. My plan, carved not on paper but in flesh and blood.
I had an eidetic memory. I could close my eyes and visualize every inch of the Fox River layout with a clarity that bordered on the supernatural. I remembered the tunnels, the sewer pipes, the hidden passages, and the system failures as if I were reading a technical manual etched in my mind.
So why the tattoo? Why mark my body so permanently if I already had all the necessary data?
The answer was simple: security and redundancy.
In a prison like this, anything could go wrong at any moment. A fight, a severe punishment, drugs mixed into the food, a blow to the head, torture... anything could affect my reasoning ability for a critical moment.
I could lose focus, suffer lapses, even minor ones. In situations of extreme stress, even the sharpest mind can falter. And I couldn't afford to falter.
The tattoo was my insurance. A way to always have the plan accessible, even when my mind was clouded. If I needed to check a measurement, an exact location, a specific valve, I could just look at my arm, my chest... my skin. There was no time to rely on memories alone when every second could mean the difference between freedom and a bullet in the head.
Plus, it gave me something even more valuable: camouflage. I knew I wouldn't go unnoticed in Fox River. My meticulous behavior, my excessive calm, my politeness... all of these things would attract attention.
I needed to look like I belonged here. Prisoners respected strength, but they also respected brands. The tattoo gave me a veneer of belonging, made me seem like one of them, while hiding my true purpose beneath layers of ink.
And there was another reason. An intimate reason. Every line of that tattoo represented my commitment. Lincoln was my brother, my only family left. I loved him more than my own life. Having the plan engraved on me was a constant reminder that every step I took, every day I endured inside, would bring me closer to our freedom. To his rescue. To settling the score with the world.
It wasn't just paint. It was sacrifice. It was hope. It was the path to our salvation, traced in the one thing I would never lose in there: my own body.
But... there was a shadow behind that certainty. I knew what the future held. I knew that once I was outside the walls of Fox River, I would not truly be free. The path I had traced on my skin would one day become the very path that would condemn me. Mahone.
He would hunt me. Every detail of that paint would become a clue. A weapon against me.
But the main issue was… Ialready knew that.
The tattoo was my insurance.
But it was also my weapon. A double-edged sword.
I carved it into my skin to remind me of the path. To make sure every detail was with me, even if I lost everything. It was a commitment... a vow that I would see it through to the end. But over time, I began to see it as something more.
It could be a beacon. Not just for me, but for anyone hunting me.
Mahone... I hadn't met him personally yet, but I knew that at some point, someone like him would come along. A hunter. A strategist. Someone who would try to get inside my mind and predict me.
And when that day came, I would need him to see exactly what I wanted him to see.
The tattoo could be a trap. A script he would follow with the false security of being in control. Every line, every symbol... I could make it seem like he was figuring out my plan. But really, he was just being led. Like a puppet.
I wanted Mahone to look at my skin and think he had found my weakness.
When in reality, he would be following a path I had prepared... to take him exactly where I wanted him to be.
That was the true beauty of the tattoo. It wasn't just my insurance. It was an illusion, a bait, a false trail that I could use against anyone who dared to pursue me.
I wasn't just marking myself with the escape plan.
I was creating the map of the maze in which my enemies would get lost.
In the end, I just need to always be one step ahead. Always.
I carved the prison map into my body.
But the map of my mind... That, no one will ever decipher. Not Mahone. Not anyone.
Lincoln steps back slightly, leaning against the wall, running his hand over his face as if he needs to clear the confusion of his thoughts. He lets out a short, nervous laugh, but his eyes reveal a mixture of shock and respect.
"Jesus, Michael... I always knew you were smart, but this... This is on another level."
He looks at his brother again, now with a mixture of hope and fear.
"This will work, right?"
I hold Lincoln's gaze, serious and firm.
"It will work out. I promise."
Lincoln takes a deep breath. For the first time in a long time, he feels like maybe, just maybe, there is a way out. He looks down at my arms again, but this time he doesn't see just paint. He sees freedom.
And most of all, he sees the unwavering determination of his younger brother who always believed in him, even when everyone else abandoned him.
"So... what's the next step?"
I smile lightly, ready to guide my brother through the path I had traced with each line of those tattoos.
The escape was beginning to become more than a plan. It was becoming real.
Every moment was crucial, every play and movement. The key pieces were moving the way I wanted and at exactly the right time.
For example, the plane... In my other life, that was a mistake. Betting everything on such a fragile, visible route... It was like shouting to the world that we were running away. And the world listened.
It was a failure, a dead end.
But to dismiss this piece entirely would be to ignore its true value. I don't need the plane as my only way out. I need it as another ace up my sleeve. A decoy. A distraction. Or a plan B… Maybe even a plan C.
Because the only certainty in Fox River is that something will always go wrong. And when that happens, I'll need alternatives. I need to be able to adapt on the fly. And the plane, even with its risks, is still a potential way out if I know how to use it.
But the truth is, the plane was never the real prize. The prize is the man behind it.
Abruzzi.
His name is more than respect. It is power. He doesn't just control the IP. He controls the invisible rhythms of Fox River. Who eats, who gets cold, who bleeds, who breathes easy for another day. The maintenance, the internal transportation, the little permissions that make life here bearable... or hell. He holds the keys that no guard has.
And if I want this plan to move like clockwork, I need those keys. I need him to open doors without even realizing he's doing it.
Besides, having his support is more than logistics. It's protection. With Abruzzi on my side, the wolves retreat. T-Bag, Avocado, anyone who thinks to test me... will think twice if they know I'm under the wing of the man who can cut off their supplies or fill their cells with pain.
So the plane is just the tip of the iceberg. The real goal is to make sure that John Abruzzi bets on me. Because when he bets... he bets everything he's got. And I'm going to make sure that this time, we both come out on top.
Furthermore, Charles Westmoreland… or rather, D.B. Cooper. The man is a legend in Fox River. Most of the inmates see him as a relic of the past, a quiet, unassuming old man who learned to survive without attracting attention. But I know the truth. I know exactly who he is and what he stands for.
Technically, I don't need him for the money. I know where it's buried. I know the exact coordinates of that desert in Utah, I've been there, I've made the necessary preparations.
I could just run away, get there and get the five million dollars.
But things are never that simple.
Westmoreland is more than just a living map to money. He is experience. He is respect here. He knows the rhythms of Fox River better than anyone. Having him on my side doesn't just make the escape easier; it strengthens our group. He is someone who adds stability, someone I can trust in times of uncertainty.
But… that's not all.
I remember what happened to him. In the series. His death… the way he sacrificed himself for us. That man had a rare dignity inside him. A kindness that few saw. He didn't deserve that end. None of us deserved it… but he even less.
And there was his daughter.
I never forgot that. She was dying of cancer. All he wanted was to see her one last time. He died without being able to. It was so unfair... so cruel. He spent years here dreaming of having that chance. And when he finally got it, life ripped it away from him.
I carry that image with me. Him, lying there, bleeding… but what hurt the most was what wouldn't happen. He would never see his daughter. He would never hold her hand.
That's the hardest part about having memories of the future. Knowing who's going to fall along the way… and having to carry that with me. I have to be strong. I have to think strategically. But deep down, I'm also human. And men like Westmoreland remind me of that. They remind me that sometimes saving a life can be worth more than any perfect plan.
After all, wasn't that why I did all this? To change fate? To save the people I care about? To guarantee our freedom?
So I need him. Not for the money. Not just to escape. I need him because this time, I refuse to leave him behind. I want him to have what he was denied. I want him to see his daughter. I want him to have peace.
Each person in the "circle of trust" was a challenge, an additional difficulty in the overall scheme. But that was the path I chose.
I do not seek only my freedom, I fight for the freedom of all of them, each one of my allies.
In the series, most of them didn't have the best fates, even after so much sacrifice.
This time, none of that would happen. Everyone who helped me, everyone who will help me and everyone who follows me on this path.
I will save them.
This was the path to freedom.