The prison cell was narrow and cold, every corner built to hold men who should never walk free. On the bed sat John Crowe, his back straight, a book resting in his hands.
Once, his name carried weight across continents. John had been born to privilege, the son of a decorated military scientist and a gifted researcher.
His family's wealth and intelligence gave him a head start, but he built something far beyond them.
Through sharp planning and control, he became the architect of the underworld. He organized heists no one could stop and assassinations no one could trace.
Rivals feared him. Governments studied him. Allies followed because opposing him meant ruin.
Then everything fell apart. A woman he trusted, the only woman he had ever loved, turned against him.
She had carried his child and still betrayed him. Her actions tore his empire apart and gave his enemies the opening they needed.
John was hunted, cornered, and finally taken alive. Not just for his crimes but for the knowledge locked inside his head.
Now, years later, the once-feared man sat alone, calm and old. The prison's silence pressed in, broken only by the faint scrape of turning pages.
His glasses caught the dim light, hiding the sharp focus behind his eyes. To the guards, he looked like another forgotten prisoner, older, quieter, easier to control. They didn't know John Crowe was patient. He had been patient all his life.
The cell door stayed closed. The world believed the king of crime had been broken. But John knew better.
The book in John Crowe's hands was worn at the edges. Its black cover read Laws of Power. He looked up when the sound of keys rattled down the hall.
A guard unlocked his cell door and, without a word, stepped aside and walked away.
John frowned. Guards never left doors open. He set the book down carefully and rose to his feet. He didn't move to run. Escaping would be pointless. He was safer here than out there.
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. A man approached, tall, bald, dressed in a sharp black suit with a red tie. His pace was slow, deliberate.
John took a single step back, drawing a quiet breath.
"It's time," the man said as he stopped outside the cell. His voice was low and calm. "Keen sight and sense, Sir Crowe."
He stepped inside without hesitation. John lowered himself back to the bed, studying him.
Had he really lived? Had he done everything he set out to do?
"I'm honored," the man said, his gaze steady. "Honored to be the one sent for a former agent, especially one as decorated as you."
John didn't respond.
At the base of his neck, a black barcode lay inked into his skin: 001. The man before him had one as well, though longer, crowded with digits.
"Get it over with," John said quietly.
The man shook his head once. "Unfortunately, sir… you still have information we need."
"I've stayed in this cell for three decades without breaking," John said, his voice low but steady. "What makes you think you can do anything to change that?"
The man's expression didn't shift. "Alexis Smith," he said, pausing before adding quietly, "or should I say, Alexis Crowe."
John's face hardened. Wrinkles deepened across his brow as his jaw tightened.
The man reached into his coat and pulled out a small folder. He laid a photograph on the bed, a woman walking with a young boy and girl.
The picture looked distant, taken without her noticing. Another photo followed: the children in school uniforms, then the woman at work, then a man beside her.
John stayed silent, eyes locked on the photos.
"My daughter has nothing to do with this," he said finally, voice sharper now.
The man didn't flinch. "Sir, you know better than anyone how far the agency will go. And you and I both know one form filed in the right place can turn anyone into collateral damage."
John's eyes narrowed. His breathing was heavier now, but controlled. He said nothing more.
"But I also know you trust them enough to believe their word," the man said evenly. "Hand over the last two ingredients for the formula, and they stay untouched."
John gave a thin, bitter smile. "An agency worth trillions, and you still can't finish what I built."
He reached for the pen the man had placed on the bed. His fingers curled around it as if to write.
Then, in one swift motion, John lunged forward. The pen shot toward the man's throat, fast and precise.
The man hadn't expected the move, but he shifted just enough for the stab to miss anything fatal. The pen tore through his shoulder instead, and blood darkened the black suit.
John surged up, using the brief opening. They crashed into the narrow cell wall, striking and grappling.
John's strength was surprising for his age, sharp and focused, but the other man was faster and heavier.
He broke John's grip, slammed him back against the bars, and drove a knee into his ribs. John hit the floor hard, gasping for air.
"A disappointment," the man said flatly, adjusting his suit with one hand. "We've improved the serum beyond everything you made. We just need the original to expand research."
He didn't bother lowering his voice. There was no need to hide the truth, he was stronger, and John was finished.
John pushed against the floor, struggling to rise. His arms shook from the effort.
The man drew a pistol fitted with a silencer. Its barrel leveled with John's head.
The old man looked up, face set in defiance even through the pain.
"Shoot—"
Pfft!
John's body went still and collapsed back to the cold ground.
The man stepped over him, pulled a phone from his inner pocket, and dialed. "It's done, sir," he said quietly. "No, I couldn't get the information. Of course. I'll move on them tomorrow."
He hung up, wiped the blood from his shoulder, and left the cell without looking back.