# Chapter 3: A Whisper in the Dark
The air in the maintenance tunnel was thick and cold, a stagnant cocktail of rust, damp concrete, and the faint, acrid tang of ozone from the flickering overhead lamps. Barrett's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence. The two figures blocking his path were not just men; they were walls of muscle and malice, their grey prison uniforms straining at the seams. The skull insignia on their sleeves seemed to absorb the dim light, making the crude drawings look like gaping voids. The one who had spoken, a lanky inmate with a cruel, weasel-like face, cracked his knuckles again. The sound was sharp, a final punctuation mark to his threat. His companion, a brute whose head seemed to merge directly into his shoulders, remained silent, his heavy breathing the only sign of life. He just stared, his eyes flat and dead.
"Cole wants to know what you're looking for," the weasel-faced inmate repeated, taking a slow step forward. "He thinks you might be a problem. We're here to solve problems."
Barrett's hand tightened around the grip of his stun baton. It felt flimsy, a child's toy against the raw animosity in front of him. His civilian training had prepared him for bar brawls and street scuffles, not this predatory, premeditated violence. He was a guard, but in this forgotten corridor, his uniform was just a target. He shifted his weight, sinking into a defensive stance, his eyes darting between the two men, trying to track them both. The narrow confines of the tunnel eliminated any chance of maneuvering. This was a kill box.
"I'm just doing my job," Barrett said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. He had to buy time, think of a way out. There was no backup here. No one would hear him scream.
The brute laughed, a low, gravelly sound that vibrated through the floor. "Your job is to walk your route and keep your mouth shut. You've been asking questions. About a ghost. A dead guard named Kane."
The mention of Liam's name hit Barrett like a physical blow. The cold rage he'd been nurturing ignited into a white-hot fire. His knuckles whitened on the baton. "What do you know about him?"
The weasel's smile widened. "We know he was noisy. And we know how to make noise stop." He lunged.
He was faster than he looked. Barrett barely had time to raise the baton before a fist like a block of granite slammed into his side. Pain exploded through his ribs, stealing his breath. He stumbled back, gasping, his vision swimming. The brute was on him in an instant, grabbing the front of his uniform and lifting him off his feet. The stench of unwashed body filled Barrett's nostrils. He was slammed against the concrete wall, the impact rattling his teeth and sending a shower of dust from the ceiling. His baton clattered to the floor, skittering out of reach.
"See? Problem solved," the weasel sneered, advancing with a shiv clutched in his fist. The makeshift blade was a shard of sharpened metal, its edge glinting wickedly in the low light.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through Barrett's rage. He was trapped. He struggled against the brute's grip, but it was like trying to bend steel. The weasel raised the shiv, his eyes gleaming with the promise of blood. This was it. This was how he would die, in a dark tunnel, his brother's murder still a mystery. He thrashed wildly, kicking out, his boot connecting with the brute's knee. There was a dull thud, but the man didn't even flinch. He just squeezed, and Barrett felt his ribs begin to creak under the pressure.
The weasel lunged, the shiv aimed at Barrett's stomach.
And then, the world went black.
It wasn't a gradual fade. One moment, the corridor was bathed in its sickly yellow light; the next, it was plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness. The humming of the lights died, replaced by a sudden, profound silence that was more terrifying than any noise. The weasel's curse was cut short. The grip on Barrett's shirt loosened as the brute grunted in surprise.
Chaos erupted in the dark.
There was a wet, sickening crunch, like a boot stomping on a piece of fruit. A choked gasp followed, then the heavy thud of a body hitting the concrete floor. Before Barrett could even process the first sound, there was a sharp *thwack*, the distinct sound of a palm strike hitting a throat with brutal force. Another gagging sound, a scramble of feet on the gritty floor, and then a second, heavier thud.
It was over in seconds.
Barrett slid down the wall, his chest heaving, his mind struggling to catch up. He could hear two men groaning, one of them wheezing for air. They were alive, but they were broken. He strained his eyes, trying to pierce the oppressive darkness, but he could see nothing. He could only hear the ragged breathing of the fallen and his own frantic heartbeat.
Then, as suddenly as it had vanished, the light returned.
The overhead lamps flickered back to life, their buzzing hum filling the tunnel once more. The scene that greeted Barrett was one of stunning, impossible violence. The two Skullcrushers were sprawled on the floor. The weasel-faced inmate was clutching his throat, his face turning a mottled purple as he fought for every breath. The brute was curled in a fetal position, his arm bent at an unnatural angle, a low, animalistic moan escaping his lips.
Standing over them, perfectly still, was Eirik.
He looked exactly as he had in the mess hall—gaunt, unassuming, with tired eyes that seemed to have seen too much. He wasn't even breathing hard. There was no sign of a struggle on him, no dishevelment of his prison jumpsuit. He simply stood there, a calm observer in the wake of a storm. His gaze swept over the two groaning men with a detached disdain, then settled on Barrett.
The weasel, seeing his rescuer, scrambled backward on his hands and feet, his eyes wide with a terror far greater than anything he had shown Barrett. He made a choked, gurgling sound and tried to push himself up, but his strength failed him. The brute simply lay there, his eyes squeezed shut, as if hoping to disappear.
Eirik ignored them. He took a step toward Barrett, his worn prison boots making no sound on the dusty floor. He stopped a few feet away, his expression unreadable. He looked Barrett up and down, a slow, deliberate appraisal.
"That was a freebie," Eirik said, his voice a low, monotone rasp that held no emotion. "The next one costs you."
Barrett stared, his mind reeling. He had seen Eirik in the mess hall, a ghost haunting the periphery. He had dismissed him as just another long-term inmate, broken by the system. But the man standing before him was something else entirely. The speed, the precision, the sheer efficiency of the takedown—it was inhuman. It was the work of a predator, not a survivor.
The two Skullcrushers, seeing their chance, dragged themselves to their feet. Without a backward glance, they fled, stumbling and limping down the corridor and around a corner, their terror a palpable wave in the air. The silence they left behind was heavier than before.
Barrett pushed himself up the wall, his side screaming in protest. He kept his eyes on Eirik, every instinct screaming that this man was more dangerous than the two thugs combined. "Why?" Barrett managed to ask, his voice hoarse.
Eirik's gaze didn't waver. "Cole's dogs are messy. They leave stains. I don't like stains." He took another step closer, closing the distance between them. The air grew colder. "You're new here. You walk around with a ghost on your shoulder, asking questions that get people hurt. You're a liability."
"I'm looking for the truth," Barrett said, a fresh wave of anger and desperation rising in him. "My brother—"
"Your brother asked too many questions, too," Eirik interrupted, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a whisper that seemed to slither into Barrett's ear. The mention of Liam, coming from this man's lips, sent a jolt through him. This wasn't a coincidence. This was a connection.
Eirik leaned in, his face inches from Barrett's. The scent of old paper and dust clung to him. His eyes, once seeming tired, now held a sharp, unnerving intensity. "You want answers, you learn the rules of this place. You don't survive in Blackstone by being a guard. You don't survive by being tough. You survive by being useful. Or by being invisible."
He straightened up, the moment of intensity passing as quickly as it had arrived. He turned as if to leave, leaving Barrett with more questions than before.
"Wait," Barrett called out, his voice echoing in the empty tunnel. "What rules? What are you talking about?"
Eirik paused, his back to Barrett. He glanced over his shoulder, a sliver of his face visible in the dim light. "You want to learn? You want to know what really happened to your brother? Then you stop being a liability and you start being a student."
He faced forward again. "Find me in the library during rec time."
And with that, he walked away, his footsteps silent, his form seeming to dissolve into the shadows at the far end of the corridor. Barrett was left alone, leaning against the cold concrete wall, his body aching, his mind a whirlwind of shock, pain, and a fragile, terrifying sliver of hope. The freebie had been delivered. The price, he suspected, would be everything.