Luca was no fool, and that was the only reason he was still breathing. In Alcatraz, stupidity wasn't just punished—it was erased, quietly and efficiently, until all that remained was a name no one bothered to remember. For days now, he had felt it—that subtle shift in the air, the almost imperceptible pressure that came with being observed. It wasn't obvious. No footsteps trailing him, no guards suddenly appearing around corners, no blatant signs of surveillance. It was worse than that. It was controlled. Intentional. Like someone was watching him from behind a one-way mirror, studying his movements, cataloging his habits, waiting for the right moment to act. And the longer it persisted, the more it gnawed at him, burrowing into the back of his mind like a parasite that refused to be ignored. In Alcatraz, being watched didn't mean suspicion—it meant interest. And interest, from the wrong person, was a death sentence waiting for the right excuse to happen.
That night, the corridors felt tighter than usual, the air heavier, colder, as if the walls themselves were closing in. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast jagged shadows that stretched unnaturally along the floor, distorting the already claustrophobic space into something almost surreal. Luca walked with purpose, but not haste, forcing himself to maintain a rhythm that didn't betray the tension coiled beneath his skin. His mind was running ahead of him, mapping out possibilities, calculating risks, replaying every interaction he'd had over the past few days. Someone had noticed him. Not just the inmates—he was used to their eyes, their curiosity, their hunger. No, this was different. This was precise. Calculated. Controlled.
"Where are you going, pretty boy?"
The voice slid through the corridor like silk over a blade—soft, smooth, and dangerous in a way that made his stomach twist instantly. Luca stopped mid-step, the muscles in his back tightening as recognition hit him before he even turned. Slowly, deliberately, he faced her. Emilia.
She stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the wall as if she had all the time in the world, as if she owned the space around her. And in many ways, she did. Emilia wasn't loud like the others. She didn't need to assert dominance through violence or spectacle. Her reputation spoke for her, whispered through the prison like a ghost story no one dared to dismiss. She had a taste—young men, vulnerable men—and once she set her sights on someone, they rarely walked away unchanged. Even Pablo, with all his influence, chose not to interfere with her. That alone told Luca everything he needed to know. She wasn't just dangerous. She was untouchable.
"I—" he started, but the word died in his throat as she moved.
She closed the distance in a single, fluid step, pressing him back against the cold concrete wall before he could react. The impact wasn't violent, but it was firm, controlled, leaving no room for resistance. Her fingers lifted, brushing along his jaw with a slow, deliberate motion, tracing the line of his face as if memorizing it. Her touch wasn't rough. That was the problem. It was soft. Possessive. Predatory in a way that made his skin crawl.
"You're trembling," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear, her voice low and almost amused. "I like that."
Luca's body betrayed him, tension locking his muscles in place, his instincts screaming at him to move, to push her away, to do something—but his mind held him still. Not out of fear alone, but calculation. This wasn't a situation he could brute-force his way out of. Not here. Not with her. One wrong move, one sign of defiance, and he wouldn't just be dealing with Emilia—he'd be dealing with everything that came with her. And that was a game he couldn't afford to play. Not yet.
Her fingers lingered, sliding down slightly, her gaze studying him with a kind of detached curiosity, like he was something new, something worth exploring. "You're interesting," she murmured, almost to herself. "I've been watching you."
That confirmed it.
Before she could say more, before the moment could stretch any further into something far worse, a voice cut through the corridor like a blade slicing through silk.
"Let. Him. Go."
The tone wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. It carried something sharper than volume—authority, anger, and something dangerously close to violence.
Lana.
Emilia paused, her fingers still resting lightly against Luca's jaw as her head turned slowly toward the source of the interruption. For a brief moment, the air between them shifted, tension snapping into place like a wire pulled too tight. Then, to Luca's surprise, Emilia chuckled softly.
"Well," she said, stepping back at last, releasing him as if she had simply grown bored. "You shouldn't be so territorial, sweetheart." Her eyes flicked back to Luca, a smirk curling at her lips. "He won't last long here."
The words lingered, heavy with implication. Not a threat. A statement.
Lana didn't respond. She stepped forward immediately, grabbing Luca's wrist with a grip that was firm enough to pull him away without hesitation. There was no hesitation in her movement, no fear—just controlled anger radiating off her in waves. She didn't look back as she dragged him down the corridor, her pace quick, sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Neither of them spoke at first. The silence wasn't empty—it was thick, charged, filled with everything that hadn't been said back there. Luca could feel it in the way her grip tightened slightly, in the way her shoulders were set, rigid with barely restrained emotion.
Finally, she exhaled sharply, the sound somewhere between frustration and relief. "You need to be more careful," she said, her voice low but edged with something deeper.
Luca rubbed his jaw absentmindedly, the ghost of Emilia's touch still lingering in a way he couldn't quite shake. "I know," he replied quietly. And he did. More than ever. Because this wasn't random. Emilia didn't just pick targets out of boredom. If she was watching him… then someone else probably was too.
They reached the library without another word, slipping inside as the heavy door creaked shut behind them, sealing them off from the chaos of the corridors. The dim light flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the rows of books and scattered documents. For a moment, it almost felt safe. Almost.
Luca sat down at one of the tables, immediately pulling records toward him, flipping through pages with growing urgency. Old logs, maintenance reports, outdated structural notes—anything that could give him an edge. But every file he opened led to nothing. Dead ends. Gaps. Missing pieces. It wasn't just incomplete—it was intentional. Like someone had gone through and stripped away anything useful, leaving behind only the illusion of information.
"They're gone," Lana muttered from across the table, her voice cutting through the silence as she leaned back slightly, arms crossed. "All the physical blueprints. Destroyed."
Luca's hands stilled. For a moment, the frustration surged, sharp and immediate, tightening his chest. Of course they were. Of course the Director had anticipated this. He wasn't dealing with amateurs. He was dealing with someone who had built this place not just to contain bodies, but to control information. And information was power.
He clenched his fists slowly, forcing himself to think past the frustration, past the instinct to react. If the physical copies were gone, then they had never been the real prize to begin with.
Hector, seated nearby with his usual calm, adjusted his glasses, his expression thoughtful, almost amused in a quiet, detached way. "Not entirely," he said, his tone casual but deliberate. "The Director didn't get rid of them completely."
Luca looked up sharply. "Then where?"
Hector tapped his temple lightly, a faint grin forming as his eyes gleamed with something that hadn't been there before—excitement. "Digital format," he said. "Stored on his personal computer."
The words hung in the air, heavy with both possibility and impossibility.
Luca leaned back slightly, exhaling. "That's impossible to access," he said, not dismissive, but realistic. The Director's personal system wouldn't just be secure—it would be untouchable. Layers of encryption, restricted access, monitored entry points. Breaking into that wasn't just difficult. It was suicidal.
"Not for me," Hector replied, the grin widening just slightly, the confidence in his voice undeniable now. "But I need a computer."
Lana let out a sharp, humorless laugh, running a hand through her hair. "Yeah? And where the hell are we supposed to find one of those in here?" she snapped, the frustration finally breaking through her composure.
Silence followed.
A long, heavy silence where the weight of the problem settled in fully. No computers. No access. No entry point. Just another wall in a place built entirely out of them.
Then—
Luca's eyes widened slightly.
A thought clicked into place, sudden and sharp, like a key turning in a lock he hadn't realized was there.
"Vanessa," he said.
The name lingered in the air, carrying with it something dangerous. Something hopeful.
Because if there was one thing Alcatraz couldn't fully control…
It was what came from the outside.