He tightened his grip on the fork. The moment the man crossed the threshold, he buried it in the man’s neck. The man’s head slammed against the wall. He yanked the fork free and stabbed again until the man collapsed, dead. Then he seized the man’s pistol.
Beyond his cell, a dimly lit corridor lined with metal doors buzzed with chaos. A system malfunction had sprung the locks, and prisoners roamed free. No one, including him—perhaps someone among them—knew what was happening.
The man he’d killed wore a correctional officer’s uniform. As he fumbled to unhook the officer’s utility belt, laden with cuffs and gadgets, another figure in blue overalls, like his own, shoved through the bars.
The newcomer, a psychopath wielding a baton, swung hard. He ducked, landing a sharp jab to the man’s throat, crushing his trachea. The baton clattered to the floor as the man clutched his neck, collapsing onto the dead officer, gasping. He rolled the man over and shot him in the face.
The man he’d shot was a psycho. He was a psycho. So was every prisoner tearing through that corridor.
Horrible sounds echoed—familiar voices begging for mercy, others laughing, some hurling curses, and a few screaming without aim. This wasn’t how he’d planned his day. He was supposed to do push-ups until night fell. In his windowless cell, time was a mystery, marked only by the meal plan. He hadn’t received breakfast.
Why do you train? the voice in his head always asked. He never answered. So when it asked where he’d go if he escaped, he stayed silent and sank onto the thin mattress.
Another man in blue overalls pushed the gate open, peering inside. His gaze lingered on the corpses and the blood’s grim artistry. Bushy-haired, with a beard swallowing his words, the man spoke. “Oh, well,” he said, his voice drowned by the distant uproar.
The man stepped in and sat beside him on the bed.
“No reason to leave, eh?”
He didn’t reply. The man continued, “In jail, you’ve got time to think. I figured life might’ve turned out fine if some things—some people—never existed.”
If the people who shaped his life hadn’t existed, neither would he. He cleared his throat and spoke.
“Life would’ve been different if my parents weren’t who they were. I am what they made me. And I need to end it.” He extended the pistol. “Shoot me.”
The man opened his mouth, but he cut him off. “I’ve thought about it. Don’t talk. Just do it.”
Beyond his cell, a dimly lit corridor lined with metal doors buzzed with chaos. A system malfunction had sprung the locks, and prisoners roamed free. No one, including him—perhaps someone among them—knew what was happening.
The man he’d killed wore a correctional officer’s uniform. As he fumbled to unhook the officer’s utility belt, laden with cuffs and gadgets, another figure in blue overalls, like his own, shoved through the bars.
The newcomer, a psychopath wielding a baton, swung hard. He ducked, landing a sharp jab to the man’s throat, crushing his trachea. The baton clattered to the floor as the man clutched his neck, collapsing onto the dead officer, gasping. He rolled the man over and shot him in the face.
The man he’d shot was a psycho. He was a psycho. So was every prisoner tearing through that corridor.
Horrible sounds echoed—familiar voices begging for mercy, others laughing, some hurling curses, and a few screaming without aim. This wasn’t how he’d planned his day. He was supposed to do push-ups until night fell. In his windowless cell, time was a mystery, marked only by the meal plan. He hadn’t received breakfast.
Why do you train? the voice in his head always asked. He never answered. So when it asked where he’d go if he escaped, he stayed silent and sank onto the thin mattress.
Another man in blue overalls pushed the gate open, peering inside. His gaze lingered on the corpses and the blood’s grim artistry. Bushy-haired, with a beard swallowing his words, the man spoke. “Oh, well,” he said, his voice drowned by the distant uproar.
The man stepped in and sat beside him on the bed.
“No reason to leave, eh?”
He didn’t reply. The man continued, “In jail, you’ve got time to think. I figured life might’ve turned out fine if some things—some people—never existed.”
If the people who shaped his life hadn’t existed, neither would he. He cleared his throat and spoke.
“Life would’ve been different if my parents weren’t who they were. I am what they made me. And I need to end it.” He extended the pistol. “Shoot me.”
The man opened his mouth, but he cut him off. “I’ve thought about it. Don’t talk. Just do it.”
He tightened his grip on the fork. The moment the man crossed the threshold, he buried it in the man’s neck. The man’s head slammed against the wall. He yanked the fork free and stabbed again until the man collapsed, dead. Then he seized the man’s pistol.
Beyond his cell, a dimly lit corridor lined with metal doors buzzed with chaos. A system malfunction had sprung the locks, and prisoners roamed free. No one, including him—perhaps someone among them—knew what was happening.
The man he’d killed wore a correctional officer’s uniform. As he fumbled to unhook the officer’s utility belt, laden with cuffs and gadgets, another figure in blue overalls, like his own, shoved through the bars.
The newcomer, a psychopath wielding a baton, swung hard. He ducked, landing a sharp jab to the man’s throat, crushing his trachea. The baton clattered to the floor as the man clutched his neck, collapsing onto the dead officer, gasping. He rolled the man over and shot him in the face.
The man he’d shot was a psycho. He was a psycho. So was every prisoner tearing through that corridor.
Horrible sounds echoed—familiar voices begging for mercy, others laughing, some hurling curses, and a few screaming without aim. This wasn’t how he’d planned his day. He was supposed to do push-ups until night fell. In his windowless cell, time was a mystery, marked only by the meal plan. He hadn’t received breakfast.
Why do you train? the voice in his head always asked. He never answered. So when it asked where he’d go if he escaped, he stayed silent and sank onto the thin mattress.
Another man in blue overalls pushed the gate open, peering inside. His gaze lingered on the corpses and the blood’s grim artistry. Bushy-haired, with a beard swallowing his words, the man spoke. “Oh, well,” he said, his voice drowned by the distant uproar.
The man stepped in and sat beside him on the bed.
“No reason to leave, eh?”
He didn’t reply. The man continued, “In jail, you’ve got time to think. I figured life might’ve turned out fine if some things—some people—never existed.”
If the people who shaped his life hadn’t existed, neither would he. He cleared his throat and spoke.
“Life would’ve been different if my parents weren’t who they were. I am what they made me. And I need to end it.” He extended the pistol. “Shoot me.”
The man opened his mouth, but he cut him off. “I’ve thought about it. Don’t talk. Just do it.”
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