The hours of the afternoon dissolved into the shadows of the high stone walls. Twilight finally bled across the sky, and the heavy iron bells of the fourth watchtower tolled once again, echoing throughout the Citadel. It was 6:00 PM. The long-awaited evening had arrived, marking the beginning of our blessed dinner rotation.
This was the final meal before the night lockdown, which meant the merciful warden, Captain Friedrich, was bound to grace us with one last masterclass in five-star culinary execution.
I marched into the sprawling mess hall, completely embodying my nonchalant, edgy protagonist persona. The canteen was a sea of orange jumpsuits, the line stretching effortlessly down the main corridor. But as the undisputed king of the cellar, I didn't even slow my pace. I walked directly past the massive queue like it didn't even exist. It was like watching Moses part the Red Sea; the hardened convicts, still reeling from the rumors of what I had done to Inmate 123 and how 217's squad had been brutally dismantled in the bathhouse, frantically scrambled backward to clear a path for me. They kept their eyes glued to the floor, terrified to even make eye contact.
I glided up to the front of the food counter. Tonight's five-star dish was a beautifully glazed, succulent roasted chicken, its rich aroma filling the air and causing my mouth to water instantly. I offered a brief, polite nod of thanks to the kitchen lady, grabbed my heavy tray, and intentionally chose a completely different, isolated bench far away from my previous spot… ensuring that the degenerate old hag, Inmate 222, wouldn't be able to track me down with his stolen poster.
I stared down at the roasted chicken. A sudden, bittersweet realization washed over my mind.
This is my last meal in this prison.
In exactly one hour, I would execute a massive, explosive jailbreak. Once I shattered this cage and abandoned Keane Leon's mortal shell, my temporary human tongue would dissipate. I would return to my true, primordial vampiric body… a biological matrix that can only derive true sustenance from the metallic, iron-rich taste of blood. I wouldn't be able to experience the rich, savory textures of mortal food ever again. Driven by that expiration date, I dug into the chicken with all my might, savoring every single drop of juice and seasoning, desperate to engrave the flavor onto my memory before my human taste buds were permanently gone.
As I chewed, my eyes systematically scanned the massive, chaotic mess hall. Looking across the hundreds of inmates, a profound realization hit me: there was not a single female prisoner in this entire citadel.
I breathed a genuine, deep sigh of relief. If even a single woman were to be locked inside this subterranean dungeon, God only knows how many horrific days she would survive in a lawless hellhole packed to the brim with unhinged rapists, child molesters, and aggressive predators. Fortunately, the women of this realm were far too innocent and noble to commit the kind of high-tier atrocities that earned a sentence in Friedrich's fortress.
Suddenly, a sharp, localized burning sensation flared beneath my skin.
I froze, my master-manipulator mask locking tight to hide the reaction. The heavy mana-suppression restraints… the cursed chains forged tightly around my neck and binding both of my arms… began to itch and vibrate violently. My internal biological clock was perfectly in sync with the environment. It was almost 7:00 PM. The sun had completely dipped below the horizon, and the cool, sheltering darkness of twilight was settling over the kingdom.
With the solar rays completely gone, my true, primordial vampiric attributes were starting to aggressively push against the prison's magical bindings. Deep within the lining of my host body's stomach, I could feel the sharp, metallic presence of the lock-picking paperclips I had swallowed earlier during my processing.
The stage was perfectly set. The dinner hour was ending, the sun was dead, and the chains were ready to break. I took one final bite of the roasted chicken, my fingers subtly twitching as I prepared to regurgitate the wire, pick the locks, and ignite the blood bomb at the fourth watchtower.
The final succulent bite of Captain Friedrich's roasted chicken vanished down my throat, and with it, my last taste of mortal cuisine. The heavy iron dinner gates groaned shut behind us as the massive throng of orange-jumpsuit-clad convicts began to disperse. The clock was ticking closer to the critical 7:00 PM milestone.
I marched with cold, measured strides back to the residential sectors of Floor 2-B, preparing for the mandatory nightly roll call. But the moment I crossed the threshold into my designated cell, my sharp protagonist facade nearly shattered into pure, unadulterated disgust.
Inmate 222 was there, completely lost to his unhinged, degenerate nature. He had spent the entire four-hour leisure block continuing his relentless edging streak, using my sister Elicia's stolen poster as his catalyst. The state of the cell was utterly abhorrent. His foul white liquid completely coated the stone floor. Worse yet, the old madman had actually violated my specific bunk bed; he had stolen the pillow from my mattress, brutally torn a hole straight through the center of the fabric, and used it to satisfy his perverted impulses. The absolute audacity to turn our temporary sanctuary into a personal, degenerate goon cave was the final straw.
I didn't utter a single word. My sharp eyes instantly locked onto a structural vulnerability in the framing of our shared furniture… a loose, rusted load-bearing bolt.
Moving with a swift, calculated kick, I violently struck the loose bolt, ripping it completely out of the iron chassis.
CRASH!
Without its structural anchor, the entire upper bunk bed suffered a catastrophic failure, collapsing forward in a heap of twisted metal and torn fabric. Inmate 222 let out a startled, breathless yelp as he was violently thrown to the floor alongside the shattered frame, the precious poster of my beloved sister Elicia fluttering out of his hands.
I stood over him, my dark bangs casting a shadow over my cold, merciless eyes.
"Hey, stop gooning. It's time for roll call."
Trembling and visibly shaken by the sudden collapse, the old hag scrambled across the debris like a broken insect. He frantically scooped up the poster, shoved it deep into his stained pockets, and shambled out toward the cell doorway. As we stepped into the corridor alongside the other inmates, 222 leaned closer to me, his voice a low, gossiping wheeze.
"Hey, 345... what exactly did you do to Inmate 217 earlier?"
I maintained my absolute main-character nonchalant persona. I had zero intention of revealing my past connection to Luke Granhart or detailing the brutal, tactical slungshot ambush I had executed in the bathhouse. I simply tilted my head, my face completely expressionless.
"What?"
"Well, word just reached the upper tier. Earlier in the showers, someone completely destroyed him. They shoved a heavy metal shower pole straight up his ass. The rumor is... his butthole looks like a literal cavern now. He's completely ruined."
I didn't bother offering a reply, keeping my gaze locked straight ahead. A mastermind doesn't celebrate the inevitable domino effect of their actions.
Just then, the heavy, rhythmic thud of armored boots echoed down the corridor. The high-stat faction guards were arriving at our block, clipboards in hand, ready to initiate the final lockdown sequence. The twilight air outside was thick with anticipation. Underneath my jumpsuit, the paperclips were ready to be regurgitated, my vampiric mana was surging against the itching chains, and my blood bomb at the fourth watchtower was waiting for the final snap of my fingers. The countdown to the jailbreak had officially begun.