Chapter 1: The Magician Arrives
The fluorescent lights burned white-hot against my eyelids. My head pounded like someone had used it for batting practice. Everything smelled like industrial cleaner and old sweat.
Where the hell am I?
I cracked my eyes open. Gray walls. Metal bench. The rattle of chains when I moved my hands.
Prison.
The memories hit like a freight train.
My name was—is—Daniel Miller. Twenty-eight years old. Sentenced to ten years for theft. Except that wasn't right. That wasn't me.
The last thing I remembered was different. A rainy Tuesday night. Headlights in my rearview mirror, too bright, too close. The screech of tires. The sickening crunch of metal. Flying through the windshield because I'd been too damn lazy to buckle up. The pavement rushing up to meet my face.
Then nothing.
Then this.
I sucked in a breath and closed my eyes again. The memories sorted themselves like shuffling cards—two distinct piles. Mine: college dropout, stage magician wannabe, dead at twenty-six. His: Daniel Miller, con artist's patsy, framed for stealing a painting worth half a million dollars.
Neil Caffrey. The name tasted like copper pennies in my mouth. The original Daniel's "friend." The one who'd set him up, left him holding the bag while Neil disappeared into the wind. The influential businessman whose painting got stolen? He'd wanted someone's head on a pike. Daniel Miller's head would do just fine.
Ten years in Fox River State Penitentiary.
Jesus Christ.
But underneath the panic, something else stirred. Recognition.
Fox River. Prison Break. Michael Scofield's elaborate escape plan, tattooed across his body in a blueprint only he could read. Lincoln Burrows on death row. The Company conspiracy. I'd binged the entire series during a particularly unproductive week in my old life.
I knew this place. I knew what was coming.
A door clanged open. Heavy footsteps.
"Miller! On your feet."
I opened my eyes. The guard was built like a fire hydrant—thick neck, barrel chest, small mean eyes. His name tag read "Bellick."
Brad Bellick. Corrupt CO. Grade-A asshole.
I stood slowly, testing the body. Same height as before, maybe an inch taller. Lean muscle, callused hands. The original Daniel had been a con artist, a thief. He'd known how to use his hands.
Good. I'd need that.
"Processing," Bellick grunted, looking me up and down. "You gonna give me trouble, Miller?"
I met his eyes and saw it immediately—the calculation, the hunger for control, the barely concealed contempt. He was sizing me up, deciding if I was prey or predator.
Time to make a choice.
I smiled. Easy, harmless, the kind of smile that said I'm nobody.
"No sir," I said. "Just want to do my time quiet."
"Uh-huh." Bellick's lip curled. "That's what they all say."
He shoved me toward the door. I stumbled but caught myself. As we walked down the corridor, I felt it—that familiar tingle in my fingertips. The original Daniel's muscle memory, waking up. My new body knew things my old one never had.
I could feel the weight of Bellick's keys on his belt, jangling with each step. Three steps behind me. If I timed it right, turned just so, I could have them off him before he blinked.
Not yet.
But soon.
The processing room was exactly what you'd expect. Fingerprints. Mugshot. Strip search. The works. Bellick watched with the dead-eyed stare of a man who'd seen a thousand naked inmates and stopped caring somewhere around number twelve.
The second guard was different. Younger, with an easy smile that actually reached his eyes. His name tag read "Stolte."
"All right, Miller," Stolte said as I pulled my prison blues on. "You're in A-Block. Cell 23. Keep your head down, don't cause trouble, you'll be fine."
"Yes sir."
Stolte started to turn away. I made my move.
"Sir? Could you hold this for a second?" I reached into my pocket—empty, of course, they'd taken everything—and pulled out a quarter. Except I hadn't had a quarter. The coin seemed to materialize between my fingers.
Stolte blinked. "Where'd you—"
I flipped it to him. He caught it automatically.
"Thanks," I said, deadpan. Then I reached behind his ear and pulled out another quarter. "Oh, you had one too."
Stolte's eyes went wide. Then he laughed, a genuine bark of surprise. "How the hell did you do that?"
"Magic," I said with a wink.
Behind Stolte, Bellick watched with narrowed eyes. I could read his expression like a book: This one's trouble. Different kind of trouble, but trouble all the same.
Let him think what he wanted. I'd just made my first ally and established my cover in under thirty seconds.
Stage magician. Harmless entertainer. Nothing to see here, folks.
Stolte pocketed the quarter, still grinning. "Well, all right then, Houdini. Welcome to Fox River."
A-Block smelled like a gym locker mixed with desperation and industrial soap. The cells were arranged in two tiers, metal doors and bars creating a maze of confined spaces. Voices echoed off concrete—laughter, arguments, the constant white noise of men packed too close together.
Cell 23 was on the first tier. Six by eight feet. Bunk bed, toilet, sink. A small desk bolted to the wall. My cellmate was out—probably in the yard or the chow hall.
I sat on the bottom bunk and took stock.
April 6, 2005. Five days before Michael Scofield gets himself arrested and sent here.
Five days to establish myself. Five days to become indispensable.
The original Daniel's memories provided context. He'd been here three weeks in holding, waiting for permanent assignment. He'd been quiet, kept his head down, terrified of everything. A perfect victim.
I wasn't going to be a victim.
I had advantages the original Daniel never dreamed of. Three of them, to be precise.
First: my hands. The sleight of hand skills were still developing, but the foundation was there. I could palm a card, pick a pocket, perform basic tricks. The muscle memory lived in my fingers like second nature. Given time and practice, I could become a master.
Second: my mind. Cold reading. The ability to observe and deduce, to read people like books. I'd always been good at it in my old life—reading poker tells, catching microexpressions. Now it felt sharper, clearer. I looked at someone and saw them: the nervous tic that meant they were lying, the way they favored their left side from an old injury, the tan line where a wedding ring used to be.
Third: something else. Something I didn't fully understand yet. When I'd concentrated on those quarters, wanting them to appear, they had. Not teleportation—I couldn't create matter from nothing. But there'd been a shift in perception, a moment where I'd been holding them and Stolte hadn't noticed until I wanted him to.
Low Presence Zone, the name whispered through the back of my mind. A field of inattention. The ability to be overlooked, to slip through the cracks of perception.
It would take practice. It would take control. But it was there, waiting.
I had five days to figure it out.
Rec time hit at 1500 hours. The cellblock doors clanged open and inmates flooded out like water from a broken dam. I followed the current, observing.
The yard was surrounded by twenty-foot walls topped with razor wire. Guard towers at each corner, COs patrolling with bored expressions. Tables scattered across the asphalt—some for cards, some for chess, some for deals that definitely weren't sanctioned by the warden.
I spotted the power players immediately.
A group of white inmates clustered in one corner, led by a lean man with dead eyes and a Southern drawl I could hear from twenty feet away. T-Bag. Theodore Bagwell. Child molester and serial killer. Canon would have him forcing his way into Michael's escape crew.
Not if I can help it.
Another cluster—mostly Black inmates, military precision to their formation. The leader was a solid man with intelligent eyes. C-Note. Benjamin Miles Franklin. Former Army. Family man.
And there, sitting alone at a chess table, an old man with knowing eyes. Charles Westmoreland. D.B. Cooper himself, though nobody knew it yet.
I filed it all away in my mind palace—the technique I'd read about in my old life, now sharp and clear as photograph. Each face, each detail, each potential ally or threat sorted into mental categories.
Time to make my entrance.
I found an empty table and pulled the deck of cards from my pocket. Yes, I'd stolen them. Three different inmates during the walk to the yard—a card from each, assembled into a full deck while their attention was elsewhere. My fingers had moved on autopilot, the skills coming as naturally as breathing.
I started with something simple. A basic shuffle, letting the cards blur between my hands. Then a one-handed cut. A fan. A spring.
The first inmate noticed after thirty seconds. Then another. Then a small crowd.
I looked up, affecting surprise. "Sorry, didn't mean to draw attention."
"Do another one," someone called out.
I smiled. "Sure. Pick a card."
The volunteer was a muscle-bound white guy with tattoos covering his arms. He drew the seven of diamonds, showed it around, put it back. I shuffled, cut, shuffled again. Then I spread the deck face-down across the table.
"Is this your card?" I pointed to one in the middle.
He flipped it. Three of clubs. "Nope."
"Damn," I said. "Sorry, man. Guess I'm out of practice." I gathered the cards back into a pile. "Oh, wait. Check your pocket."
He frowned but reached into his jumpsuit pocket. His eyes went wide. He pulled out the seven of diamonds.
The yard exploded with noise. Laughter, disbelief, demands for more tricks.
I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Bellick, watching from the wall. His expression was unreadable.
Let him watch.
I performed for twenty minutes. Card tricks, coin tricks, even making a cigarette disappear and reappear behind someone's ear. The crowd ate it up. I was reading them the whole time—noting who laughed, who stayed stone-faced, who watched with calculating eyes.
When I finally stopped, hands tired from the constant manipulation, a voice called out from the edge of the crowd.
"That was amazing, man!"
I looked up. The speaker was Puerto Rican, maybe five-nine, with an open face and genuine enthusiasm written all over him. His body language screamed no threat—shoulders relaxed, hands open, smile wide.
But there was something else there too. Desperation. The kind that came from being separated from someone you loved.
"Thanks," I said, gathering the cards.
"I'm Fernando Sucre." He stuck out his hand.
I shook it. His grip was firm but not aggressive. "Daniel Miller. People call me Danny."
"You gotta teach me some of that, Danny. My girl—" His face lit up. "My girl Maricruz, she loves magic. If I could do something like that when I get out, man, she'd love it."
When I get out. Not if. When.
I smiled. "Sure, hermano. Always happy to share the magic."
Across the yard, I caught another set of eyes on me. C-Note, still standing with his group. His expression was thoughtful, measuring.
Smart and careful. Good.
I pocketed the cards and stood. "Come on, I'll show you the basics."
As Sucre followed me to an empty table, chattering excitedly about Maricruz and their wedding plans, I organized everything in my mind palace. First ally: secured. Prison reputation: established. Five days until Michael Scofield arrived.
The game had begun.
That night, lying in my bunk while my cellmate snored above me, I shuffled the cards in the darkness. My fingers moved automatically, building muscle memory, refining technique.
Five days to become indispensable.
I smiled at the ceiling.
The cards whispered between my palms, and I realized with sudden clarity that I'd pickpocketed them from three different inmates without a single one noticing.
The old Daniel would've been terrified.
The new Daniel was just getting started.
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