The gates of Blackthorn Penitentiary groaned as I crossed the threshold, metal screeching like it resented opening for one more prisoner. The air smelled of sweat, mildew, and something darker I couldn't name. A chill ran down my spine, not from fear, but from awareness, the kind that came with knowing the place had a rhythm, and everything that moved followed it. Dozens of eyes flicked toward me. Some curious, some calculating, all measuring. They didn't know me yet. That was good.
"New guy," a guard said flatly, his boots clanging against the concrete floor as he gestured toward the long corridor ahead. "Cell 47. Move."
Cell 47. Isolation block. They called it punishment, but I knew better: it was a trap for the impatient. Most prisoners cracked here, swallowed by silence and fear. Not me. I was patient. I was observant. Every wall had a story; every routine had a flaw; every shadow hid a secret. The faint stains along the floor hinted at old fights, past cries of defiance that had been silenced.
A tray slid through the slot: meager food, enough to survive, not enough to think. The guard asked my name. I gave none. Names were weapons. A nod was enough.
The cell door slammed behind me. Silence.
The room was small, cramped, smelling faintly of bleach and despair. Perfect. I dropped onto the cot, letting my body slump, but my mind raced. Blackthorn was a fortress, yes, but every fortress had cracks. Every lock had a weakness. Every guard a habit. And I intended to find them all.
That first night, the silence was deafening. Whispers traveled through the walls, boots shuffled in the halls, doors creaked. Patterns began to emerge: which guard lingered too long at the north stairwell, which one always started rounds at Cell 42's corner, who counted the prisoners twice and who glanced the first time and walked on. I memorized everything. The other inmates' stares pressed through the walls, they had no idea I was cataloging, timing, calculating.
A scream shattered the quiet. Metal clashed, furniture overturned. A fight in the next block. Prison life was chaos, but chaos had rules. Observe carefully, exploit the pattern. I smiled. Every scream, every clash, every command barked by a guard was another data point, another thread in the web I was weaving.
By morning, I had noticed more than routines. I saw factions. A tall, broad-shouldered inmate approached my cell, muttering under his breath. "New meat. Let me know if you cry." Noted. Strong, impulsive, easily provoked. He could be useful, or dangerous. I stored the information carefully. No one saw me flinch. No one saw me smile.
Then the warden's voice echoed through the loudspeaker, smooth and chilling. "Welcome to Blackthorn. Survive your first month, and you might see the next. Attempt to escape, and you will discover why this prison has no exits."
I heard the smirk in his voice. Everyone thought they could scare me. Everyone was wrong. His words weren't warnings, they were admissions. He was proud of his fortress, and that pride made him predictable.
By the third day, I had mapped guard shifts, noted weak locks, and identified prisoners I could manipulate, or who might manipulate me. Deliveries, maintenance routines, blind spots in the cameras, every predictable movement was a potential lever for escape. Most prisoners called this paranoia. I called it preparation.
That night, a loud crash erupted from the neighboring cell. One of the bigger inmates, Dax Malren, had thrown his cot in frustration. Guards barked orders, rushing to contain the chaos. I stayed still, observing. Patience revealed the cracks in the system. And then I saw it, a side door left unsecured just a fraction longer than usual. A flaw. A possibility.
In the shadows, I watched and listened. The prison had a heartbeat, and once you learned to feel it, you could predict its next move. Conversations slipped through the walls, hushed voices warning each other, sharing secrets no one outside should know. Names, trades, grudges, alliances, everything was a tool if you used it correctly.
Blackthorn had more secrets than just weak doors. Whispers spoke of hidden corridors beneath the older wings, rooms that didn't exist on any map, and guards who answered to no one. One older inmate, his voice low and cautious, hinted at tunnels that led into the river that ran beneath the city. Most of it was rumor, but rumors were clues.
The guards didn't realize that I noticed everything, their impatience, their laziness, their hidden frustrations. Every mistake they made, every corner they ignored, I committed to memory. And the inmates? They underestimated me. A lot. Some out of fear, others out of arrogance. Both worked in my favor.
The days blended into nights. Meals, counts, lockdowns, fights, I observed. I listened. I waited. I mapped the unseen, anticipated the unspoken. Each new prisoner, each new scuffle, each new guard shift, gave me more pieces of the puzzle. And the puzzle, when complete, would be my freedom.
I caught the way the new guard lingered too long at the infirmary before rounds, how he fidgeted with his keys as if they were fragile, as if any wrong move might break him. I noted the way Dax Malren reacted to authority, the moments when his anger could be redirected, when he could be turned into an ally. Every detail mattered.
This prison thought it could trap me. It thought it could control me. It didn't know that I wasn't just surviving, I was learning, plotting, waiting. And when the time came, I would walk out of Blackthorn with every eye blind to my plan.
Until then… I waited.