The prison at Crestwood was not built for mercy. Its walls were blocks of blackened concrete, sweating moisture in winter and burning hot in summer, rising like tombstones over the city's forgotten edge. Chain-link fences crowned with spirals of razor wire gleamed dull silver under the overcast sky, and the watchtowers—four of them, one for each corner—pierced the horizon like bayonets. Inside, everything smelled of rust, bleach, and men who had lost too much time.
That morning the corridors pulsed with the slow rhythm of footsteps as guards barked orders to the inmates, corralling them like cattle. Prisoners shuffled in line, orange uniforms wrinkled, shoes scraping against the scuffed concrete. The cafeteria line snaked forward beneath the hum of buzzing fluorescent lights. The room echoed with trays clattering, spoons scraping against plastic bowls, and the occasional hiss of whispered gossip.
Lucian Freeman stood in the middle of the line, motionless except for the slight shift of his shoulders each time the queue lurched forward. He carried his tray without hurry, his posture erect, eyes calm, the kind of calm that was too still to be trusted.
A trio of inmates farther down the line broke into hushed conversation when they noticed him.
"Hey, guys," muttered the tallest of the three, a heavy-headed brute with a scar under his jaw. He nodded with a smirk, tilting his chin toward Lucian. "Look. It's that scary fellow."
The shorter man beside him squinted, confusion etched across his pinched face. "Who?" he asked, making a dumb sort of expression, his lips parted, head cocked as though the thought refused to settle.
The scarred one leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Azaqor freak."
Recognition flared in the short one's eyes. He gave a dramatic gasp. "You mean the one who murdered his fellow students?" His tone was half disbelief, half theater, as if speaking of a character in a horror story rather than a man standing a dozen feet away.
The third inmate, broad and smug, joined in. "I heard he's a demented pervert. Cuts his victims up, leaves carvings on them—spooky symbols, like some kind of devil's script. Uses an instrument, they say. Sick bastard."
The scarred one chuckled darkly, as if the horror was entertainment. "What do you expect? His old man was a scumbag tycoon. Everyone thought the Freeman fortune was clean, but nah—turned out it was dirtier than the sewers. Drugs, arms smuggling, sex trafficking. Otis Freeman had his hands in it all." His voice lowered further. "Most wanted man in the world and nobody even knew his real face. Not until his son slipped, went wild, and dragged the family name through blood."
The short one's eyes gleamed with morbid excitement. "Maybe this psycho lost a few screws and snitched on his own dad." He made a gesture with his hand: thumb and forefinger pinched together, twisting like a bolt falling loose, then letting it tumble from his temple. The other two burst into snickering laughter, shoulders shaking.
But the laughter stopped.
Lucian had turned. Not with a sudden jerk, not with anger—only with the stillness of a predator acknowledging noise in its forest. His calm eyes rested on them, flat and unreadable. He didn't blink. His face carried no frown, no smile, only that unsettling serenity.
The trio froze. For a moment they stood with their trays clutched tight, as though the fluorescent lights had turned them to statues. Then, one by one, they shifted their faces away. A cough. A nervous scratch at the neck. They pretended to study the wall, the ceiling, the back of the man in front of them. Anything but Lucian's gaze.
Hours later, in the shadowed corner of the recreation block, the silence broke with a muffled grunt.
The scarred one—who had first whispered Lucian's name—was on the floor, back pressed against cold concrete, arms flailing weakly. Lucian knelt over him, fists driving down like pistons. Each blow cracked against bone and flesh, spraying red across the prisoner's lips and onto Lucian's pale knuckles. His movements weren't frenzied; they were deliberate, paced, almost mechanical. He did not shout, did not breathe heavy—just struck with the inevitability of a machine carrying out its function.
The other two inmates hovered nearby but dared not interfere. Their bravado had evaporated into a tremor of fear.
One last strike landed, harder than the rest, splitting skin open across the scarred man's cheek. Lucian paused, exhaled through his nose, then released his grip. The man slumped sideways, not dead but barely clinging to consciousness, his breath rattling through broken teeth. Blood smeared Lucian's palm, glistening wet under the dim fluorescent light.
Lucian stood, flexing his hand once, then let it fall calmly to his side. He turned without a word, leaving the broken man on the floor.
---
Later that afternoon, the prison yard buzzed with its usual chaos. The air was sharp with the tang of sweat and rusted iron. Weights clanged against cracked pavement. Prisoners cursed as they did pullups on bent bars or pushed each other through makeshift exercises. The chain-link fences rattled whenever someone hurled a basketball against the rusted hoop at the far wall.
Lucian sat on a worn bench in the corner, away from the crowd. His posture was erect, eyes down, a book resting in his hands. The cover was faded, pages dog-eared. He turned each page slowly, calmly, as though the noise of the yard belonged to another world.
A cluster of guards lingered by the fence, speaking low, cigarettes dangling from their lips.
"Hey, fellas," one said, puffing smoke. "You hear? Apparently murders have been happening again. Copycat Azaqor killer."
Another guard scratched his jaw. "Yeah. Saw it on the news a couple months back. Gorgeous chick covering it—name started with an A. Aa… something."
"Wynter," a third supplied with a grin. "Aubrey Wynter. That news anchor lady. Single, too, I heard. Hotter in person than on screen."
"Too bad she ain't on TV now," the first said, shaking his head.
"Yeah," muttered another, exhaling smoke. "Because some wannabe killer decided to take out her mom. Spooked her right off the broadcast. Can't blame her. That was cold."
"Wannabe, huh?" One of them pursed his lips, jutting them in Lucian's direction without pointing, a sly motion that looked like he was trying to spit without spitting. "Looks like more than wannabe, to me."
"Keep it down," hissed the other quickly. "Careful. Even locked up, Freeman's bad news. Word is, you talk trash loud enough and he'll hear it. Then he waits. Finds you later. Just ask the rookies who got beat half-dead their first week."
The guard zipped his lips dramatically with two fingers, then whispered, "Too bad his old man didn't last long in prison. Otis offed himself before trial even started."
Another leaned close, lowering his voice. "Maybe he didn't off himself. Maybe someone took him out before he could spill the beans. Puppet serving bigger masters."
"Could be. But I think Lucian being the Azaqor killer—that's what pissed 'em off. Maybe some victim's parents had money, hired an assassin to take Otis out while he was still in here."
"Wouldn't surprise me," muttered another. "Most of the kids Freeman slaughtered at Everthorne College were Crestwood rich kids. Families with ties. Halverns, for one. Biggest damn name of 'em all."
The first scoffed, half afraid, half entertained. "So you buy that conspiracy crap? That anonymous podcast freak who hides his voice? Claims the Halverns were behind Otis, pulling strings?"
The other guard gave a sharp look. "Not crap. Photos, recordings. Otis Freeman, Graham Lockridge, and old Theodore Halvern—together at parties. Smiling. Like brothers. Tell me that ain't strange."
The group fell into uneasy silence, until another tried to lighten the air. "Forget that. How 'bout Crestwood basketball? That kid, Ron Blackwell—mayor's boy—dragging the team to the quarterfinals."
"Yeah," one said, "wasn't he a survivor of the Everthorne massacre? Freeman's class?"
Another smirked. "Survivor, hero—claims he helped stop Lucian. Bullshit, if you ask me. Whole publicity stunt cooked up by the Blackwells. Make their kid look like a savior."
The others muttered agreement, laughter in low tones.
All the while, Lucian turned a page. His calm expression never shifted. The book closed softly in his hands. He rose to his feet, unhurried, and walked away from the bench.
---
Night in Crestwood Prison pressed in heavy. The cells glowed faint blue from the electric bars, humming faintly, a constant reminder of containment. Prisoners lay hidden behind their doors, but each cell was a mystery; you could not see through the opaque steel fronts unless a guard slid open the inspection hatch. It gave the halls an eerie anonymity, a row of secrets stacked against each other.
In his cell, Lucian sat with his back against the wall. The air smelled faintly metallic. A guard approached, footsteps echoing, and without a word slid an envelope under the bars. Its paper was reddish, faintly stained as though it had absorbed something dark. Lucian reached down, picked it up, and unfolded the paper inside. His eyes moved across the words in silence. His expression did not change.
The paper folded closed again.
---
Elsewhere, the control room was silent except for the hiss of static from the monitors. The guards on shift had slumped in their chairs, mouths open, cups spilled beside them. A grotesque stillness filled the room. Screens showed the halls, the yards, the cells.
One screen flickered.
The electric bars of Lucian's cell hissed, sparks darting along the line—then slid open by themselves. The hum ceased.
Lucian stood. Calm as ever, he stepped out into the corridor.
The halls were empty. No guards. No footsteps. Only the buzz of overhead lights and the hollow echo of his shoes on the concrete. He walked without hesitation, passing cell after cell, each door opaque, each inmate invisible behind steel. Compartments for peering inside remained sealed, eyes hidden, secrets locked.
Lucian did not look back. His figure faded into the long corridor, swallowed by shadows at
the edge of the surveillance blind spots.
The prison remained asleep.
And the Quiet Storm walked free.