Chapter One: Intake
POV: Michael Scofield
Michael Scofield walked into Fox River State Penitentiary with a plan tattooed on his body and absolute certainty in his heart.
The transport van's metal bench had numbed his legs hours ago, but he catalogued the discomfort and filed it away. Irrelevant data. What mattered: the guard positions visible through the mesh window (three at the gate, two flanking the intake door, one in the tower with a rifle that caught morning light), the camera angles (sixty-degree sweep on the main unit, blind spot near the east wall approximately twelve feet wide), the architectural details that matched—mostly matched—the blueprints he'd memorized.
Twenty-nine years old. Lean from weeks of deliberate weight loss. Controlled movements that betrayed nothing of the chaos beneath. His eyes moved constantly, processing, calculating, storing.
My brother has sixty days until they execute him for a crime he didn't commit. I have fifty-nine days to get him out.
The van doors opened. Harsh fluorescent light flooded in, and Michael stepped out into Fox River's intake facility with his hands cuffed and his future mapped in ink across his skin.
The intake desk was a fortress of paperwork and institutional indifference. A guard with thinning hair and the complexion of someone who'd spent too many years under artificial light took Michael's transfer documents without looking up.
"Name?"
"Michael Scofield."
"Crime?"
"Armed robbery."
"Previous incarcerations?"
"None."
The guard's pen paused. He stared at the intake form for three seconds too long—Michael counted—then four, then five. His jaw worked slightly, the way people's did when they were trying to reconcile contradictory information.
"Problem?" Michael asked. Keep voice neutral. Cooperative inmates drew less scrutiny.
The guard didn't look up. "No. Just..." He shook his head. "Haven't we done this before?"
Michael's pulse stayed steady. Guards played mind games. It was their primary entertainment. "First time for me."
The guard stamped the form with mechanical precision, still not meeting Michael's eyes. "Welcome back to Fox River, Scofield."
Back. Not to. Back.
Michael filed the phrasing away. Psychological warfare, probably. An attempt to unsettle. His hand moved unconsciously to his ribcage, pressing against the jumpsuit where the angel tattoo marked his skin.
The strip search was designed for dehumanization. Michael let it happen with clinical detachment, stepping out of his clothes, spreading his arms, turning when ordered. His body was a tool. The humiliation was temporary. The plan was permanent.
But the guards noticed the tattoos immediately.
"The hell is all this?" The first guard—broad shoulders, wedding ring he kept touching—circled Michael with open curiosity.
"Art." Michael had prepared this answer weeks ago. "Each image represents someone I love."
The second guard ran his fingers over the piece across Michael's back—angel wings spreading from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, feathers rendered in meticulous detail. "Awful lot of love to carry around."
"Or regret."
They checked for gang symbols, hidden contraband, anything suspicious in the intricate lines. Found nothing. The UV-reactive layer, the scar tissue patterns that formed letters under the right angle of light, the symbols hidden within symbols—these passed unnoticed. Exactly as designed.
First test passed.
But then the second guard's finger traced a line across Michael's shoulder blade, pressing harder than necessary. "This one's fresh. You get that in county?"
Michael knew every tattoo on his body. Knew the date each was completed, the artist's name, the healing time, the specific placement down to the centimeter. He'd overseen the process with the same attention to detail he brought to structural engineering projects.
Nothing on his shoulder blade should be fresh.
He twisted, caught his reflection in the metal surface of the intake desk—distorted, partial, but enough. The tattoo looked exactly as it should. Healed. Months old.
"Must be the lighting," he said.
The guard grunted and moved on.
Michael filed it away. Another data point. The pattern was unclear, but patterns existed. They always did.
They gave him an orange jumpsuit that smelled of industrial detergent and other men's desperation. Inmate number 94941. He committed it to memory the way he committed everything to memory—instantly, permanently, another variable in the equation that would save Lincoln's life.
A guard led him through corridors toward the cell blocks. Michael counted his steps: forty-seven. Two left turns. One right. The route matched his mental blueprint of the facility.
But the hallway felt wrong.
He measured it by floor tiles, an old surveyor's trick. Sixty-three tiles from the intake door to the cell block entrance. Should have been fifty-eight, based on the architectural plans he'd studied, memorized, tattooed onto his own ribs.
Five extra tiles. Approximately fifteen extra feet of hallway that shouldn't exist.
Blueprint error, he told himself. Buildings deviate from plans. Renovations aren't always documented. This means nothing.
But his plans relied on precise measurements. Every calculation assumed the blueprints were accurate. If they weren't—
He buried the thought. Deal with variables as they emerged. Adapt. That was the point of all those contingencies.
Behind him, two guards spoke in low voices, apparently unaware that sound carried in concrete corridors.
"Thought he was in C-Block?"
"No record of that. First time in the system."
"Weird. Could've sworn..."
They trailed off.
Michael's analytical mind cycled through explanations. Mistaken identity. Common face. Resemblance to another inmate. But Scofield wasn't a common name, and his face was distinctive enough that strangers rarely forgot it.
Another data point. Another piece of a pattern he couldn't yet see.
Something about this place felt rehearsed. Like everyone was reading from a script they'd performed before, and Michael was the only one who didn't know his lines.
The cell block gate loomed ahead. Heavy bars, electronic lock, camera mounted above. Michael noted the camera's sweep pattern, the guard station to the left, the keypad that would require a six-digit code.
The gate opened with a metallic shriek.
He stepped through.
And for just a moment—less than a second—he heard someone screaming his name. His own voice, agonized, desperate, coming from somewhere deep below the prison. Somewhere that shouldn't exist.
He stopped.
"Keep moving, Scofield." The guard's hand pressed against his back.
The scream was gone. If it had ever been there at all.
Michael walked into A-Block and told himself he hadn't heard anything.
* * *
A-Block rose around him in tiers of concrete and steel. Three levels of cells stacked like a brutalist wedding cake, metal railings catching the afternoon light that filtered through narrow windows. The air tasted of sweat, industrial cleaner, and something harder to name—desperation, maybe. Concentrated hopelessness.
Michael's assessment was automatic: approximately two hundred inmates in this block. Guard stations at each tier entrance, manned by officers who looked simultaneously bored and alert. Camera coverage at roughly sixty percent, leaving blind spots near the stairwells and the far corners of each level.
Useful. All of it useful.
His cell assignment: second tier, middle section. Cell 40. Not too isolated, not too exposed. A guard pointed him up the metal stairs, and Michael climbed with measured steps, one hand on the railing.
The railing was covered in scratch marks. Dozens of them, clustered near the turns, forming patterns that might have been random damage or might have been—
Tally marks. Someone had been counting.
Counting what? Days? Escape attempts? Deaths?
He filed it away and kept climbing.
Cell 40 was eight by ten feet of concrete block, holding two bunks bolted to the wall, one toilet, one sink, and one other human being.
Fernando Sucre looked up from the bottom bunk as Michael entered. Twenty-seven, Puerto Rican, with a face that managed to stay friendly despite the prison jumpsuit and the hollow look that came from too many nights behind bars. He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and offered his hand.
"You must be my new cellie. Fernando Sucre."
Michael shook it. Firm grip. Calluses on the palm—manual labor before incarceration. No gang tattoos visible on the forearms. "Michael Scofield."
Something flickered across Sucre's face. Not recognition exactly, but something adjacent to it. His brow furrowed.
"Scofield. Man, that name..." He trailed off, shaking his head slightly.
"You know someone with that name?"
"No, that's the thing. Don't think so. But it sounds..." He searched for the word. "Familiar? Like I've said it before." Another head shake, harder this time. "Weird. Sorry. Prison messes with your head."
"It's not that uncommon," Michael said, though it was.
"Yeah. Probably." Sucre didn't look convinced.
Michael took the top bunk without discussion. Strategic advantage: he could see the entire cell from above, monitor the door, track anyone approaching. He arranged his few possessions—a change of clothes, basic toiletries, nothing that would mark him as anything other than a standard inmate—with precise movements.
Sucre watched him with open curiosity. "You real neat. OCD or something?"
"Just organized."
"In here, organized gets you killed or gets you out." A pause. "Which one you going for?"
Michael almost smiled. Almost. "I'll let you know."
Sucre talked. It was clearly how he handled nerves—filling silence with words, building connection through disclosure. Michael listened, cataloguing useful information while maintaining the appearance of casual conversation.
Maricruz. Sucre's girlfriend. Pregnant. They'd been planning to get married before he got arrested—aggravated robbery, knocked over a liquor store trying to buy her a ring. Stupid crime, five-year sentence, and now she was waiting for him on the outside.
"Four years, three months left," Sucre said, pulling a worn photograph from under his pillow. A beautiful woman with dark hair and a smile that could break hearts. "She said she'll wait. You think she'll wait?"
"I don't know her."
"Yeah." Sucre tucked the photo away. "Me neither, sometimes."
Michael recognized the dynamic: love driving someone to desperate choices. Sucre would do anything to get back to Maricruz, just as Michael would do anything to save Lincoln. Parallel motivations. Potentially useful.
"What about you?" Sucre asked. "What're you in for?"
"Armed robbery. Bank."
A low whistle. "Damn. Get anything?"
"What I needed."
Sucre didn't push. In prison, half-answers were the only complete answers.
Later, after lights out, they lay in their respective bunks in darkness broken only by the fluorescent glow filtering through the bars. The sounds of prison at night surrounded them: coughs echoing down corridors, muttered conversations, the clank and groan of ancient plumbing.
"You seem like a smart guy," Sucre said into the darkness.
"Why do you say that?"
"Way you look at things. Like you're doing math in your head."
Michael allowed himself a small smile that Sucre couldn't see. "Structural engineer. Before."
"No shit? What's a structural engineer doing robbing banks?"
"Sometimes the structure you're trying to fix isn't a building."
A long pause. Then: "That's either really deep or really crazy."
"Maybe both."
Silence stretched between them. Michael stared at the ceiling and traced the blueprints in his mind—corridors, vents, electrical conduits, the hidden pathways that would carry him and Lincoln to freedom.
"You got a girl?" Sucre asked.
An image surfaced unbidden: a woman he'd never met but whose photograph he'd studied during his research. Dark hair, intelligent eyes, a doctor's confident posture. Dr. Sara Tancredi, prison physician. His access point to the infirmary, which connected to the old staff quarters, which led to—
"No," he said.
"Man, that's lonely. Doing time without someone on the outside."
"I've got my brother."
"That's different, papi. I mean someone who..."
Sucre didn't finish. They both knew what he meant.
Michael didn't respond. He lay in the darkness, running calculations, refining plans, preparing for tomorrow. His hand pressed against his chest through the jumpsuit, feeling the angel's wings beneath the fabric. The tattoo felt warm.
Not painful. Just... active. Like it was waiting for something.
"Lincoln's in here somewhere," he whispered, quiet enough that Sucre wouldn't hear. "I'm going to get him out."
From somewhere outside the cell, another inmate muttered in sleep. The words were muffled, unclear, except for fragments that drifted through the bars:
"...tried that already... didn't work..."
Michael told himself he was mishearing.
Told himself.
* * *
The next afternoon, Michael stood at the narrow window of Cell 40 and watched the exercise yard three stories below.
Sucre was napping, snoring softly on the bottom bunk. Michael had learned his cellmate's patterns already—he slept between two and four, ate dinner too fast, talked to Maricruz's photograph when he thought no one was listening. Useful information. All information was useful.
The window offered a view of approximately forty percent of the yard. Reinforced glass, iron bars, dimensions that matched his blueprints within acceptable margins. Death row inmates had a separate yard time—2:45 to 3:30 PM, according to his research.
Michael checked his watch. 2:57.
His heart rate increased. First emotional crack in the control he'd maintained since the transport van. He hadn't seen Lincoln in person since the trial three months ago. Since he'd watched his brother be sentenced to death for a murder he didn't commit, and Lincoln's face had shown no surprise at the verdict. Just resignation. Just the look of a man who'd always expected the world to fail him.
At 3:00 exactly, the yard doors opened, and inmates flooded out.
Michael scanned faces. Searching. There—
Lincoln Burrows. Thirty-two years old, bigger than Michael had ever been, shaved head gleaming in the afternoon sun. He moved differently than Michael remembered. Slower. More watchful. Prison-hardened in ways that went beyond the physical.
He walked alone. Lincoln had always walked alone, even in crowds. Even as a kid, taking care of Michael after their mother disappeared and their father drowned himself in bottles. Solitary by nature, isolated by circumstance.
Michael's chest tightened. That was his brother. The person who'd raised him, protected him, taken beatings meant for Michael without complaint. The person who was innocent—Michael had done the research, traced the conspiracy, mapped the players—and no one believed it except Michael.
And Michael was going to save him.
Had to save him.
Had engineered every detail of his life for the past year toward this single purpose.
Lincoln walked to the weight bench and started his routine. Michael watched, cataloguing. The way Lincoln checked his surroundings every thirty seconds—prison awareness, survival instinct. The way he favored his left side slightly, compensation for an old injury. The way he avoided eye contact with other inmates, a strategy for avoiding conflict.
Michael's mind processed it all automatically. Can't help it. It's not a choice. It's who I am.
Lincoln finished a set and stood, stretching, rolling his shoulders. He looked around the yard with that watchful expression that never quite relaxed. His gaze swept up toward the cell blocks—
And stopped.
On Michael's window.
They were too far apart for clear eye contact, but Michael knew. Lincoln saw him. Recognized him somehow, despite the distance, despite the angle, despite the impossibility of identifying a face through a three-inch window from two hundred feet away.
Lincoln's expression changed. Shock first. Then horror. Then something that looked terribly like despair.
He took half a step forward before catching himself. Guards had noticed the movement, were already shifting toward him. Lincoln stopped, jaw clenching with the effort of control.
His mouth moved, forming words Michael couldn't hear but could read clearly:
What did you do?
Michael pressed his hand against the glass. He couldn't wave, couldn't signal—the guards would notice, would connect them, would compromise everything. But he tried to communicate through the barrier, tried to project his intention:
I'm here. I'm getting you out.
Lincoln shook his head. Slight movement, barely visible. Then he deliberately turned his back to the window.
Rejection. Protection. He's trying to save me from myself.
Michael's jaw clenched.
As Lincoln turned, the afternoon sunlight caught his face at an angle, and Michael saw it clearly: a scar above his left eye. Two inches long, healed but relatively recent, cutting through the eyebrow at a specific angle.
It hadn't been there at the trial. Three months ago, Lincoln's face had been unmarked.
Prison violence, probably. It happened. But something about the scar bothered Michael. The placement. The length. The angle. It felt eerily specific, like something he'd seen before in a photograph or a diagram.
But he hadn't. He would remember.
Coincidence, he told himself. Generic injury. Irrelevant.
But it wouldn't leave his mind. That scar. He didn't know why it mattered.
Just knew it did.
Michael's attention shifted to the guard dynamics. Four visible, probably two more out of sight. The main guard strutting through the yard was one he recognized from research: Brad Bellick. Corrupt CO, petty tyrant, dangerous in the way small-minded men with authority always were.
Bellick walked the same route every seven minutes. Clockwork precision. Exploitable.
The other guards showed a mixture of boredom and watchfulness. One younger guard kept checking his watch like he'd rather be anywhere else. Vulnerability there. Potentially useful.
Michael was building his mental database when movement caught his eye. Another prisoner in the yard—older, weathered, sitting alone on a bench away from the others. White hair, deeply lined face, the stillness of someone who'd stopped expecting anything.
The man looked up. Directly at Michael's window. Locked eyes with a precision that should have been impossible at this distance.
Recognition flooded the man's face. Not just seeing someone—knowing someone.
Slowly, deliberately, the man shook his head. His lips moved, forming a single word:
No.
Then he stood and walked away, and he didn't look back.
Michael's skin prickled. Who was that? How did he—?
Another data point. Another piece of a pattern that kept expanding beyond his ability to see its edges.
He returned to his bunk and lay down, closing his eyes. Behind his eyelids: Lincoln's face. The scar. The despair.
His brother thought this was suicide.
Michael thought it was salvation.
One of them was right.
The angel tattoo on his back suddenly burned hot enough to make him gasp. He sat up, twisted, tried to see the skin in the metal surface of the sink. No visible inflammation. No redness. Skin looked completely normal.
But it burned.
He knew it burned.
Sucre stirred on the lower bunk. "You okay, papi?"
"Fine." Michael forced his voice steady. "Just... adjusting."
But his hand stayed pressed against the angel's wings, and the heat didn't fully fade.
* * *
The alarm shattered the evening quiet without warning.
Michael and Sucre had been waiting for dinner—still twenty minutes away, according to the posted schedule—when red lights began flashing and a blaring siren filled the cell block. Different from the count alarms Michael had researched. Harsher. More urgent.
The intercom crackled: "LOCKDOWN. ALL INMATES RETURN TO CELLS. LOCKDOWN."
Sucre looked around, confused. "What the hell? We're already in cells."
In the hallway, inmates who'd been moving toward the cafeteria scrambled back toward their cells, guards shouting orders. Doors slammed shut in sequence down the block—CLANG, CLANG, CLANG—and their own door locked with a sound like a coffin closing.
"This normal?" Sucre asked.
"I don't know."
But Michael did know. Emergency lockdowns during intake processing were not standard protocol. Something was wrong.
Through the bars, he watched the hallway. Guards running past with unusual urgency—not the controlled response to a fight or a riot, something different. A medical team rushed past with a gurney, followed by four guards in full riot gear.
For one prisoner? That was extreme.
Inmates called out from their cells: "What's happening?" "Someone shank somebody?" No answers came. The guards were too focused, moving with the kind of coordination that suggested they'd practiced this scenario.
Michael pressed against the bars, trying to see more. Sucre joined him, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow space.
"Never seen them move like that," Sucre said. "Someone must've done something real bad."
"Or something bad is being brought in."
"What's the difference?"
Good question. Michael didn't have an answer.
They waited. Nothing to do but wait. Michael's mind raced through possibilities: did this affect his timeline? His plans depended on predictable patterns. Unexpected variables could cascade through his calculations, compromising—
Commotion from down the hall. The medical team returning.
The gurney rolled between them, flanked by guards. Strapped to it: a prisoner in full five-point restraints. He was screaming, thrashing against the bonds with desperate strength. Words emerged between the screams, broken and raw, but Michael couldn't make them out.
The gurney passed directly in front of their cell. Thirty feet away, but visible.
Michael saw the prisoner clearly: male, appeared mid-forties, face bloodied and bruising. His orange jumpsuit bore an alphanumeric code instead of the standard numeric system—something like D-13-MJS.
Then Michael saw the face.
Blood drained from his own.
"Damn, they beat him bad," Sucre said. "Who is that?"
Michael couldn't answer. Couldn't speak.
Because the man on the gurney looked exactly like him.
Older. Scarred. Broken. But the bone structure was identical. The jawline. The eyes. The specific arrangement of features that Michael saw every time he looked in a mirror.
It was his face.
Impossible.
Had to be stress. Trick of light. Resemblance that distance exaggerated into something more.
Except—
As the gurney passed, the older man's eyes locked onto Michael's. Directly. Deliberately. The screaming stopped. The thrashing ceased. He went completely still, staring through the bars with an intensity that burned worse than the tattoo.
Recognition flared in those familiar eyes.
The man's lips moved. Too far away to hear, but Michael could read them clearly. Four words that made no sense and perfect sense simultaneously:
You weren't supposed to come back.
Michael's heart pounded.
The man kept staring as they wheeled him past. Tears streamed down his bloodied face. Not pain tears. Grief tears. The kind that came from watching something precious destroyed.
Then the gurney turned the corner, and he was gone.
Michael's hands shook against the bars.
"Did you see his face?" Sucre's voice came from far away.
"Yes."
"He looked like..."
"I know."
"How is that possible? You got a brother in here besides Lincoln?"
"No." Michael's voice was hoarse. "No brothers except Lincoln."
"Then who the hell was that?"
"I don't know."
But somewhere deep beneath the denial, in the part of his mind that processed patterns even when consciousness refused to see them, Michael did know.
That was him.
Somehow. Somewhen.
That was Michael Scofield.
Impossible. But true.
His tattoos burned. All of them. Simultaneously. Like his entire body had been set on fire from the inside.
* * *
The lockdown lifted after two hours. No explanation given. Dinner arrived late, cold, delivered to cells by guards who wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.
Michael couldn't eat. He sat on his bunk, staring at the tray of gray meatloaf and watery mashed potatoes, and tried to make his brain process what he'd seen.
Sucre ate nervously, watching Michael between bites. "You okay, man?"
"Fine."
He wasn't fine. His entire worldview had cracked. Michael Scofield believed in patterns, in logic, in the ability of a sufficiently prepared mind to solve any problem. He did not believe in... whatever that had been. Doppelgangers. Impossible recognition. Older versions of himself strapped to gurneys and weeping.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He lay on his bunk in the darkness, listening to Sucre snore and the prison settle into its nocturnal rhythms—coughs echoing down corridors, muttered conversations through walls, the endless groaning of ancient plumbing. Normal sounds. Familiar sounds.
Nothing felt normal.
His mind kept returning to the older man's face. Identical to his own. Unmistakable. Logic said impossible—people didn't have perfect duplicates walking around, especially not in the same prison at the same time. Eyes said undeniable—he'd seen what he'd seen.
Michael reached up to touch his own face. Checked. He was still himself. Still twenty-nine. Still here. Still real.
Wasn't he?
His back erupted in pain without warning.
He gasped, arching against the mattress, biting down hard to keep from crying out. The angel tattoo on his right shoulder blade—it was burning. Not metaphorically, not symbolically, but actually burning like someone had pressed a hot iron against his skin.
He rolled off the bunk, landing on the concrete floor with a thud that woke Sucre.
"What the—Michael?"
"My back." Michael's voice came through gritted teeth. "Check my back."
He ripped off his shirt, presenting his back to the dim light filtering through the bars. Sucre climbed down, still half-asleep, confusion written across his face.
"Check for what?"
"Is it red? Burned? Anything?"
Sucre's hand ran over the angel tattoo, tentative. "Man, there's nothing there. Skin's normal. Little warm maybe, but no burn."
"It's burning."
"You okay? Should I call the CO?"
"No." Michael forced himself to breathe through the pain. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The technique he'd used a thousand times during the tattooing process. "No guards."
Gradually, the burning subsided. Not gone—diminished. Like someone slowly turning down a dial. It left behind something that wasn't quite pain. More like... awareness. Like the tattoo was a body part he'd forgotten he had, and now it was awake.
Michael touched it carefully. Skin felt fine, just as Sucre had said. But under his fingertips, he felt something else. Texture he didn't remember. Raised lines, too small to see in this light, forming patterns within the angel's wings.
Braille-like. Encoded. Messages.
He moved to the metal sink, using its reflective surface as a makeshift mirror. Angled his head to see behind his ear—the spot where the guard had claimed he had fresh ink.
Under the fluorescent glow from the hallway, he saw it clearly.
A small geometric symbol. Overlapping circles with architectural precision, the kind of design he might have created himself. But he hadn't. He knew every tattoo on his body. This one wasn't supposed to exist.
"What is that?" Sucre had followed him, peering at the reflection.
"I don't know."
"You don't know your own tattoos?"
"This one's new."
"How can it be new? You just got here."
Michael had no answer.
He lay back on his bunk, but sleep wouldn't come. He touched the symbol compulsively—it felt foreign and familiar simultaneously. Like muscle memory of something he'd never done.
"You sure you're good?" Sucre's voice drifted up from below.
"Yeah. Just adjusting to prison."
"That's some adjustment."
Silence. Michael listened to the night. To the sounds that should have been normal but weren't.
Then, from far away—so distant it might have been imagination—a scream.
Muffled through concrete and steel, barely audible, but Michael heard words within it. Screamed in a voice that sounded exactly like his own:
"...WASN'T... SUPPOSED... BACK..."
The same thing the older man had whispered. But screamed now. Agonized. Desperate.
Coming from somewhere deep. Somewhere down. Somewhere below the prison.
Michael's eyes snapped to Sucre's bunk. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"The scream."
Sucre listened. Silence stretched. "No, man. I don't hear nothing."
"Good." Michael's voice was barely a whisper. "Good."
But he had heard it. And worse—he had recognized the voice.
It was his own.
From somewhere else. Somewhere down.
He touched the new tattoo behind his ear again. Traced the symbol. Then his fingers moved to his back, to the angel's wings, and found more raised lines hidden in the feathers. They formed shapes. Letters, maybe. Words.
In the darkness, he couldn't read them.
But they were there. On his body. Telling him something. Warning him.
If only he knew the language.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd find a way to see them. Tomorrow he'd figure this out.
Tonight, he just lay there. Covered in a map he didn't make. Burning with heat he couldn't explain. Hearing screams in his own voice from a place that shouldn't exist.
Welcome to Fox River, Michael Scofield.
Some of you has been here before.