The metallic sound of the mechanical locks echoed in unison through the block, cutting off the murmur that had been rising in the galleries. That was the signal. The heavy cell doors slid aside almost simultaneously, releasing the flow of khaki uniforms into the corridor.
Albert reacted fast. With the agility of someone who knew the routine and the scramble for the best portions, he went out first, merging immediately into the mass of inmates pushing toward the mess hall. Michael, keeping his impassive rhythm, did not hurry. He stood up calmly, picked up Rebecca Nozel's book, and set it with precision on the bunk where he'd been lying, aligning the edges of the volume with the iron frame. Only then did he cross the threshold of the cell.
Walking with measured steps through the gray concrete corridors, he followed the flow to the entrance of the broad, noisy mess hall. In the distance, his eyes found Albert, already holding a spot midway in the line at the metal counter. Michael, however, had no intention of joining that line. His objectives there were purely logistical. Without changing course, he crossed the hall and headed straight for the opening that led to the outer yard.
The air outside was stuffy, cut by the murmur of dozens of men scattered across the cement. Ignoring the sidelong glances, Michael moved toward a calmer, more secluded area where the density of inmates was lower. He remained there, motionless, observing the environment like a neutral observer logging variables.
It wasn't long before a familiar silhouette appeared in the periphery of his vision. Miller showed up at the entrance to the service block and, with a subtle nod of his head, explicitly called him toward the communal bathroom. Michael caught the signal immediately and, keeping his relaxed posture, walked in the indicated direction.
Upon entering the humid space with its strong odor of industrial disinfectant, he found Miller leaning against one of the concrete sinks. The man spoke low, his voice almost a whisper under the echo of dripping faucets.
— The guard uniform is up there, on that small pipe — Miller said, indicating with his eyes the narrow duct that ran along the ceiling, perfectly hidden by shadows and the angle of the roof. — Completely hidden. The access card is being cloned right now. It'll be ready in about 25 or 26 minutes.
Before Miller could finish the timeline, the sound of heavy, calm footsteps at the entrance interrupted the conversation. The atmosphere inside the bathroom changed instantly. The silhouette that crossed the doorway wasn't the largest in the complex in terms of muscle mass, but he carried a physical density that seemed to displace the air around him. It was the Invisible Jab. The man with feline movements whose legend said he threw punches faster than an opponent's brain synapse could register.
Jab fixed his cold eyes on the pair. He looked at Miller with disdain.
— What are you doing here with the new guy, Miller? — he asked, his voice rough.
Miller opened his mouth to formulate a justification, but Jab cut him off rudely with a wave of his hand.
— Forget it. I don't care what you do. I'm only here because of the new guy.
Michael didn't change his expression. He stared fixedly at the man in front of him.
— What do you want? — he asked, his voice monotone and devoid of any trace of intimidation.
— I heard the new guy here has a large amount of money stashed away — Jab replied, stepping closer with slow steps, the tendons in his neck visibly tense.
— I do — Michael replied calmly. — But it's only mine.
Jab's jaw clenched. The newcomer's calm clearly irritated him.
— Charles told me the whole story. Said you're skilled at chess and took every cent from him on the board. He made me an offer: if I took all that money back, I'd keep half. But you know what? I'm keeping all of it. Hand the money over, new guy. Now.
— No — Michael answered, his voice flat. — If you want money, go earn it from someone else.
Miller, sensing the dangerous escalation, raised his hands and tried to intervene.
— Hey, easy, you're not supposed to fight in here...
He couldn't finish the sentence. With terrifying speed, Jab fired a straight punch at Michael's face. The movement was a blur in the air, exactly as the stories described.
But Michael merely tilted his head to the side a few centimeters, letting the fist pass through empty space.
Jab's eyes went wide. Miller froze, mouth agape. No one had ever dodged an opening strike from the Invisible Jab. Feeling his pride wounded, the veteran didn't wait. He chained a devastating sequence: four consecutive blows, thrown at maximum speed and on crossing trajectories, designed to corner any target.
Michael moved his torso and head in a choreography of extreme economy of motion. Left, right, dipped a fraction, pulled the shoulder back. Four perfect evasions. Without the slightest effort or loss of balance.
Jab took a step back, completely shocked, his breathing starting to quicken at the impossible. The terror of incomprehension was stamped on his face.
— Leave — Michael said, his voice still gentle and measured.
The command sounded like a final insult. Gathering all his strength and applying even greater, more violent speed than usual, Jab threw one last straight punch. Michael took an imperceptible sidestep. Jab's massive fist shot past and slammed squarely into the solid wooden door right behind. The impact was brutal; the wooden structure couldn't withstand the energy and shattered entirely, scattering splinters and dust across the bathroom floor.
Before Jab could pull his arm back or process the miss, Michael acted. With a single surgical, precise movement, he applied exact pressure to a specific point on the aggressor's neck, instantly shutting down his nervous system. Jab's eyes rolled back and his body went completely limp.
Michael held him firmly by the arm before he could collapse into the wreckage of the door. With controlled movements, he guided the unconscious man to the floor, laying him safely on the concrete.
Miller watched it all with his mouth open, eyes fixed on the destroyed door and on the man considered invincible now sprawled on the ground. The silence in the bathroom was absolute, broken only by the dripping faucet. It took a few seconds for Miller to recover his speech.
— This... this is impossible — Miller stammered, his voice trembling with pure dread. — Nobody dodges this guy's punches. And he... he destroyed the door with one punch. You knocked him out like it was nothing.
Michael looked at the scattered pieces of wood and then at Miller.
— Am I going to have to pay for the door damage?
— No... no, of course not — Miller answered quickly, swallowing hard and shaking his head. — We'll say it was an old fight or vandalism. The guards won't dig into this if he doesn't open his mouth.
Miller looked at his own wristwatch, his hands still slightly trembling from the shock of what he had just witnessed.
— I... I'll go see if the card is ready. Better I get out of here.
He said goodbye with a nervous, hurried nod, leaving the bathroom with quick steps, visibly disturbed by Michael's display of skill.
Michael didn't answer. He simply straightened his uniform, stepped over the pieces of the destroyed door, and crossed the threshold toward the yard. He walked without haste until he found a covered area, where the shadow of one of the walls offered respite from the harsh sun. He sat on the concrete bench, crossed his arms, and fixed his eyes on the horizon of the yard, beginning the mental countdown of the minutes left until the plan advanced.