We sat in the dim, isolated corner of the cavernous canteen, the heavy stone wall providing a solid anchor at my back as I looked out over the sea of orange jumpsuits. I picked up a slice of cucumber with my plastic fork and took a bite. Because of my unique shapeshifting abilities, experiencing flavor in this borrowed body was always an interesting sensation; my true, primordial form possesses no tongue or sensory taste buds, so the crisp, refreshing crunch of a real cucumber drenched in creamy dressing was surprisingly vibrant.
But I had absolutely no time to relax or enjoy the culinary distraction. I was a professional, and I needed to formulate a flawless tactical plan to completely dismantle Inmate 123 without triggering a high-alert response from the armored guards patrolling the overhead catwalks.
While I had heavily inferred that the giant was the apex predator of the second level based on physical telemetry, I still needed concrete verbal verification from an inside source. I glanced across the metal table at the old man, who was messily shoving cucumbers into his mouth like a mindless, old masturbating hog. My eyes narrowed as I noticed that fresh, sticky white liquid was literally dripping from his unwashed fingers right onto his salad greens. The disgusting freak hadn't even bothered to wash his hands before handling his food.
Suppressing a wave of deep revulsion, I leaned forward, keeping my voice low, edgy, and entirely focused.
"Hey, 222. Look at me. Tell me exactly who holds the crown on this floor. Who is the absolute strongest inmate here?"
Inmate 222 paused, a half-chewed piece of cucumber sticking out of his mouth. He looked over toward the center of the hall where the colossal African man was still aggressively intimidating a group of weaker prisoners, then looked back at me with a shudder.
"Obviously, it's Inmate 123, Look at the sheer size of that thing. He's the undisputed strongest person on the entire second level, and the most feared predator in this whole Citadel. No one touches him, not even the guards if they can help it." the old man mumbled, wiping his sticky mouth with the back of his contaminated sleeve.
Perfect. His testimony officially confirmed my structural hypothesis. Inmate 123 wasn't just a random bully; he was the primary gatekeeper of the second floor.
In a high-security subterranean ecosystem like the Citadel, the fastest way to gain the respect of the major criminal syndicates and earn an invitation into the large, powerful factions was to publicly and brutally dethrone the current king. Defeating Inmate 123 would instantly grant me the leverage, reputation, and fear required to bypass the lower tiers and secure my path down to the third level where Luke Granhart was being held. The target was locked. Now, I just needed to orchestrate the perfect blind spot to strike.
I stared intently at my cucumber salad, my mind racing as I systematically analyzed the tactical options available to eliminate Inmate 123 from the board. The strategic variables were incredibly complex, and every path carried a high probability of failure if not executed flawlessly. My first, most direct instinct was to simply provoke the giant into an open brawl right here in the center of the cafeteria. But as I glanced up at the heavily armed knights patrolling the steel catwalks, I immediately recognized the extreme structural flaw in that approach. Engaging in open combat would instantly alert the guards stationing the perimeter. Even if my superior martial arts training allowed me to soundly defeat him using Keane's baseline human maximum of 100 stats, the uninhibited, high-stat guards would descend upon us with enchanted batons, and I would inevitably find myself dragged away to a deep, anti-magic solitary confinement cell, entirely severed from the general population and my ultimate objective.
That structural bottleneck forced me to consider a second, more manipulative approach: playing the victim. I could purposefully allow Inmate 123 to assault me, using my own host body as bait to trigger a severe disciplinary response from the warden.
While the Citadel was a brutal repository for criminals, it certainly wasn't a charity organization; the administration would never tolerate an inmate openly disrupting the internal security matrix of the facility. If the giant severely beat a compliance-tier prisoner in front of the guards, the heavy-armored units would ruthlessly suppress him and toss him into a lockdown block, effectively removing him from the ecosystem.
However, I rejected this option almost immediately. To successfully navigate the deep criminal networks on the lower tiers and command the absolute respect required to extract information from Luke Granhart, I needed to maintain an unbreakable, terrifyingly edgy main-character persona. Allowing myself to be publicly battered and humiliated by a common thug would completely shatter that carefully cultivated aura of fear, reducing Keane's reputation to absolute zero.
My thoughts then veered toward a darker, third alternative.
Since Keane's body was naturally perceived as a weak, fragile, and pencil-sized boy, I could strategically leverage that physical vulnerability. I could deliberately lure the giant into a dark, unmonitored corridor or a secluded storage alcove by pretending to offer myself up as a submissive prostitute. The moment he dropped his guard in the shadows, expecting an easy target, I would use my flawless hand-to-hand combat mechanics to swiftly and silently break his spine. Yet, as I mentally simulated the scenario, a wave of cold, logical dread washed over me.
In a claustrophobic, physical grapple against a massive six-foot adversary, there was a non-zero statistical probability that he could use his superior physical leverage to overpower my suppressed human stats. If he managed to pin me down and forcefully violate this body, the biological consequences would be catastrophic. Even though my consciousness was temporarily piloting a male disguise, my true, underlying anatomy remained tethered to my primordial identity as a female vampire.
If Inmate 123 successfully planted his semen inside me during a struggle, the internal biological systems would still function, meaning I would literally risk getting pregnant. Escaping this subterranean fortress while forced to carry and bore a child fathered by a horrific prison deviant was an absolute, categorical nightmare. It was a massive, definitive no.
That left me with my fourth and final master plan, a high-stakes strategy that perfectly aligned with my calculating, edgy persona. I remembered a critical piece of localized intelligence passed down to me back in Lulu City by my underworld contact, Chris.
He had explicitly detailed that because the Citadel was a completely sealed, subterranean fortress carved into the bedrock beneath the sea, fires were the single most terrifying hazard to the facility's structural integrity. A small, uncontrolled spark down here would rapidly consume the limited oxygen supply, leaving every single living soul to suffocate in pitch-black smoke. Because of this existential threat, the architect had installed a centralized emergency fire alarm switch on every single level. If triggered, the system would automatically open all internal security gates and force a total, chaotic evacuation of the sector.
However, the system was heavily restricted; the fire switches were strictly meant to be operated by authorized guards during a crisis. Chris had vividly recalled an incident where a high-ranking prisoner had pressed a fire alarm accidentally, and the warden had ordered his immediate, public execution on the spot to maintain absolute discipline.
My sharp eyes subtly scanned the vast cafeteria walls until I spotted it: a heavy, iron-encased emergency fire switch glowing with a faint crimson mana-rune, positioned directly adjacent to the main exit doors. If that switch was pulled, absolute chaos would erupt across the canteen. The panicked guards would be forced to abandon their combat perimeters to manage the mass evacuation protocols, creating the perfect, unmonitored blind spot for me to ruthlessly beat Inmate 123 into submission without any official interference.
But the risk of being caught initiating the alarm meant certain death. I couldn't afford to pull that lever myself; I desperately needed an expendable pawn to take the fall for the sabotage. I slowly turned my gaze back across the metal table, watching the old man clumsily lick dressing off his contaminated sperm fingers.
Right there, sitting directly in front of me like a disposable chess piece, was Inmate 222. The holy masturbator was going to pull that switch for me, whether he liked it or not.
"Bingo."