The metallic sound of the mechanical locks echoed through the cell block, but the bars of their cell remained closed, awaiting the release of the quadrant. Albert, having just finished listening to Michael's geometric explanation, let out a muffled laugh and walked over to the small metal sink. He picked up his toothbrush and began brushing his teeth with the energy of someone who needed to burn off idle time, making the white foam crackle against the metal while staring at the blurred reflection in the polished steel mirror.
Michael remained standing beside the door, his arms crossed behind his back. His eyes did not blink as they monitored the guards' pace in the outer corridor. He could hear the rhythmic impact of polycarbonate batons striking the bars of neighboring cells, an audible signal that the opening procedure was progressing exactly according to the official schedule.
Clack.
The pneumatic mechanism of their cell finally released. The heavy iron door slid aside with a shrill creak. Albert spat water into the sink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and slipped the toothbrush into the pocket of his orange uniform.
– Time for chow – the giant said, straightening his posture. – Let's go before the line turns into hell.
The walk to the central cafeteria took place beneath a haze of murmurs and dragging footsteps. Hundreds of inmates marched in parallel lines through the gray concrete corridors, the soles of their rubber sandals creating a continuous hiss against the worn floor. The smell of burnt coffee and stale bread began to dominate the air as they approached the large hall with peeling white tiles.
At the cafeteria serving line, prisoners moved in single file past the large brushed-steel containers. Michael maintained his upright posture, his eyes fixed ahead. When his turn came to approach the counter, the massive figure of Reder appeared on the other side of the metal barrier. The inmate responsible for serving meals gripped the aluminum ladle with unnecessary force, the knuckles of his fingers turning white.
Reder stopped serving. He leaned forward slightly, resting his muscular forearms on the edge of the counter, and fixed his dilated pupils directly on Michael.
– What's your problem, kid? – Reder's voice came low, a rough vibration that barely rose above the sound of cutlery around them. – That's the second time I've caught you staring at me like that. What are you looking for?
Michael did not retreat a single millimeter. His expression remained perfectly flat, his eyelids motionless, recording the micro-movements in Reder's facial muscles—the slight contraction of his left eyebrow, the accelerated rhythm of the man's breathing. He did not answer. He simply listened to the threat as if he were processing a routine report.
– I'm warning you – Reder continued, clenching his teeth, his eyes bloodshot. – The next time I catch your eyes on me, you're going to have a problem you won't be able to solve in here. Understood?
Michael remained absolutely silent. The absence of fear or reaction on the young man's face seemed to irritate Reder even more than an aggressive response would have. With a sudden motion, Reder grabbed the gray plastic breakfast tray and extended it forward. The moment Michael's fingers touched the opposite edge of the tray, Reder's thick fingers tightened around it, locking it in midair.
An invisible tug-of-war formed above the metal counter. Michael did not pull the tray; he merely kept his arms rigid, applying the symmetrical pressure necessary to prevent it from falling.
One second. The breathing of the inmates waiting behind them seemed to stop.
Two seconds. Reder's eyes sparked as he tested the newcomer's physical and psychological resistance.
Three seconds. The silence between them was a rope stretched to its absolute limit.
Realizing that Michael's lack of reaction was beginning to attract the attention of the guards stationed on the upper walkways, Reder abruptly released the tray and stepped back with a sneer of contempt.
– Move along – the man growled.
Michael took the tray with his usual precision and walked toward the long concrete tables. He chose a seat facing the side wall, positioning himself so he could maintain a clear visual field of the cafeteria's emergency exits.
A few minutes passed before Albert's massive silhouette blocked the light from the overhead fixture above the table. The giant sat heavily on the opposite bench, setting his own tray aside for a moment. He glanced around, leaned forward, and whispered with a voice thick with tension:
– Michael... what was that back there in the line with Reder? That guy is one of the most dangerous men in this block. Have you lost your mind, standing up to him like that?
Michael calmly chewed a piece of bread, swallowed, and fixed his cold eyes on Albert.
– He's a pathetic man – Michael said, the cadence of his voice perfectly linear, without the slightest trace of arrogance or anger. Merely a factual observation.
Albert blinked, his mouth slightly open. He looked at Michael, searching for any sign that the young man was joking, but the boy's face was a wall of marble. The giant remained completely stunned, unable to articulate a single word. He simply picked up his coffee mug, shaking his head in silence as he processed the incomprehensible audacity of his cellmate.
They finished the meal under a dense silence. When the first inmates began to stand and return their utensils, the cafeteria loudspeaker system emitted a sharp burst of static, followed by a mechanical, emotionless voice:
– Inmate 9412, Michael. Report to the medium-security visitation room. Inmate Michael, visitation room.
Michael placed the plastic mug on the table with precision. He stood up, brushing invisible crumbs from his uniform with the palms of his hands. As he turned toward the access corridor, his lips moved in an almost imperceptible whisper, a mental note to himself:
– Took long enough.
The route to the visitation wing involved two routine searches and the opening of three sequential electromagnetic gates. When Michael crossed the final isolation line, he entered a room divided by thick acrylic partitions, where inmates could sit across from their respective visitors.
Seated in an iron chair on the opposite side of the security glass was a woman with impeccable posture, wearing a dark overcoat that contrasted with the pallor of the prison environment. Her hair was tied into a firm bun, and her eyes carried a sharp vitality. Upon seeing Michael settle onto the metal bench, she rested her elbows on the table and allowed a slight smile to form on her face.
– Well, who would've thought... – the woman spoke through the intercom, her voice mixing irony with mild amusement. – The great prodigy of logic, locked inside a maximum-security concrete box. I must say, orange suits your skin tone, Michael. It's a very... rustic color palette.
Michael did not alter his expression in response to the provocation. His eyes focused directly on hers, ignoring the distraction of the remark.
– Did you get what I asked for? – Michael asked, his voice cutting through the light atmosphere she was trying to create.
The woman slowly let the smile fade, replacing it with the professional seriousness required by protocol, though her eyes still retained a conspiratorial gleam.
– You never change, do you? No room for pleasantries – she sighed dramatically, adjusting the handbag resting on her lap. – Yes, I got it. The investigation into the sergeant's hidden transactions and medical inconsistencies was completed with absolute success. His system is more fragile than we anticipated.
With a smooth movement calculated to avoid the blind spot of the overhead surveillance cameras, the woman's hand slid beneath the pressed-wood visitation table, extending a thick, sealed brown envelope.
Michael extended his left hand beneath the protective partition, receiving the document with the tips of his fingers. The texture of the paper confirmed the presence of densely printed reports. He slipped the envelope into the fold of his uniform with surgical movements, ensuring the bulk was completely concealed beneath the thick fabric.
Satisfied with the item's condition, Michael rested his hands on the edge of the table and began to rise, ending the visitation session before the allotted time had even reached its halfway point.
– Thank you, Lydiane – Michael said, locking eyes with the woman for one final second before turning toward the return door. – Your efficiency keeps the plan's parameters within the acceptable margin of error.
Lydiane watched the young man walk away with that same mechanical, unwavering posture she knew so well. She let out a short, soft laugh through the microphone, shaking her head at her companion's usual coldness.
– You're welcome... cute – she murmured, her tone carrying an affectionate sarcasm that Michael pretended not to register as he crossed the iron gateway back into confinement.