Chapter 5: One Day Before
The guards changed shifts at 0600, 1400, and 2200. Three eight-hour rotations, with fifteen-minute overlap periods where the outgoing shift briefed the incoming. During those fifteen minutes, the prison moved with institutional precision—COs checking in, checking out, grabbing coffee, bullshitting about their lives outside these walls.
During those fifteen minutes, nobody was really watching.
I'd been tracking patterns for four days now. Every shift change, every patrol route, every lazy habit and conscientious routine. The information lived in my mind palace, organized and cross-referenced like a database.
CO Stolte took his bathroom break at 1400 every day. Fifteen minutes in the staff restroom, probably scrolling through his phone. CO Patterson walked the perimeter of the yard every twenty minutes but spent most of his time at the southwest corner, smoking cigarettes and watching the street beyond the walls. Bellick did cell inspections on Tuesdays and Thursdays, always starting with A-Block at 1000 hours.
And the cameras—the cameras had blind spots.
Not many. Whoever designed Fox River's security had been competent. But competent wasn't perfect. There was a three-foot gap between the coverage zones in the corridor leading to the chapel. The yard's northeast corner went unwatched for thirty seconds when the cameras rotated. The shower block had one dead zone in the back left stall.
Small cracks in the armor.
But cracks were all I needed.
The library smelled like old paper and floor wax. It was mostly empty at 1100—most inmates preferred the yard or TV room during free time. I sat at a corner table with a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, not really reading, just maintaining the illusion of normalcy.
That's when C-Note found me.
He didn't announce himself. Just pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, his movements economical and precise. Military bearing, even in prison blues.
We looked at each other.
"You're too comfortable for new fish," C-Note said finally. His voice was low, controlled. "Most guys come in scared. Trying to prove themselves or stay invisible. You? You just... exist. Like you've been here for years."
I closed the book. "Maybe I'm a fast learner."
"Maybe." C-Note leaned back, arms crossed. "Or maybe you've got an angle I haven't figured out yet. So I'm asking directly: what's your game, Miller?"
Smart. Direct. No bullshit.
I studied him the way I'd been studying everyone else. Late thirties, good posture despite years of prison food and limited exercise. Calluses on his hands from pushups, not from manual labor. The way he sat—back to the wall, eyes on the door—spoke of threat assessment training. His jumpsuit was clean, creased. Self-discipline.
But it was his eyes that told the real story. Tired. Frustrated. Desperate.
"You were Army," I said. "Military police, maybe, or supply chain. Somewhere you learned to notice things. You've got two kids—a boy and a girl. Your wife's name starts with K. And you're not here because you're a criminal. You're here because you were loyal to the wrong person."
C-Note's expression didn't change, but his shoulders tensed. "How the fuck do you know that?"
"Your left hand. You adjust your wedding ring constantly, even though they took it when you came in. Muscle memory. The tattoo on your forearm—'Darius' in block letters. That's a boy's name, probably your son. The way you mentioned 'kids' plural earlier when talking to someone else in the yard, but the second name isn't tattooed, means your daughter's younger. You haven't had time to get her name done yet."
I paused, watching his face.
"And the wife's name? You whispered it in the chow hall yesterday when you thought nobody was listening. 'Kacee will understand.' That's K-a-c-e-e, probably. Unique spelling."
C-Note stared at me like I'd just performed actual magic.
"The military training is obvious from posture and situational awareness," I continued. "And the loyalty thing? You've got that look. The one guys get when they took the fall for someone else. When they're angry about it but would do it again anyway because that's who they are."
Silence stretched between us.
"You didn't answer my question," C-Note said finally. "What's your angle?"
"No angle. Just surviving with style."
"Bullshit."
I smiled. "Fine. You want the truth? I'm trying to make friends. Build alliances. Keep myself useful enough that people protect me instead of victimize me. That's not an angle—that's just smart prison politics."
C-Note processed that. His eyes never left mine, searching for the lie.
He wouldn't find one. What I'd said was true—just not complete.
"You're dangerous," he said quietly. "You see too much. Know too much. That makes you either an asset or a threat."
"Which one am I?"
"Haven't decided yet." C-Note stood. "But I'm watching you, Miller. And if you become a threat to my family—if anything you do makes it harder for me to get back to Kacee and Darius—I'll end you myself. We clear?"
"Crystal."
He walked away, moving with that same economical precision.
I opened my book again, but my mind was racing.
C-Note just revealed himself as someone who thinks strategically. He'll be watching now. That's good and bad. Good because he's smart enough to be a valuable ally. Bad because he's smart enough to notice things I can't afford anyone noticing.
Another piece on the board.
C-NOTE'S POV
Benjamin Miles Franklin sat in his cell that afternoon, staring at the picture of Kacee and Darius he kept hidden in his Bible. His family. His reason for existing.
Miller knew their names. Knew details about his life that C-Note had never shared with anyone in Fox River.
How?
The official story was that C-Note was in for transporting stolen goods. The truth was messier—he'd taken the fall for his commanding officer's scheme, kept his mouth shut even when it meant prison time, because that's what loyalty meant.
And somehow, this new fish with the magic tricks had deduced all of it from watching him for a few days.
Dangerous, C-Note thought again. Too smart. Too observant.
But dangerous could be useful. If Miller could see patterns, predict behaviors, read people like books—that was a skill worth cultivating. Worth protecting.
C-Note put the picture back in his Bible and made a decision.
He'd watch Miller. Learn what made him tick. And when the opportunity came—because opportunity always came in prison—he'd make sure Miller owed him.
Assets were better than threats.
DANIEL'S POV
T-Bag's stash disappeared at 1930 during evening count.
I'd been planning it all day. T-Bag kept his contraband—cigarettes, pills, a shank made from a sharpened toothbrush—hidden in a hollowed-out section of his cell wall, behind a poster of a woman in a bikini. Not clever, but effective. Most COs didn't search thoroughly enough to find it.
But I'd watched him access it three times over the past four days. Tracked his patterns. Knew exactly where it was.
The opportunity came during count. T-Bag was standing at his cell door, hands behind his back like everyone else. The COs were walking the tier, clipboards out, checking each cell.
I activated Low Presence Zone.
The field spread out from my center like a bubble of forgetfulness. The air around me grew heavy, resistant, like moving through water. My cellmate Raul was standing two feet away, and his eyes slid past me without seeing.
Thirty seconds.
I slipped out of my cell during the fifteen-second gap when the CO was checking the cell three doors down. Moved quickly, quietly, to T-Bag's cell.
One minute.
His cellmate didn't see me. T-Bag himself was facing away, focused on the CO approaching. I went straight to the poster, peeled it back, accessed the hollow space.
Ninety seconds.
The headache started. Pressure building behind my eyes, like someone inflating a balloon inside my skull.
I grabbed everything—cigarettes, pills, shank. Palmed them all with practiced efficiency.
Two minutes.
The world started to feel distant. My vision blurred at the edges. The field was straining, wanting to collapse.
I made it back to my cell with three seconds to spare. Dropped the field just as the CO reached my door.
The pain hit like a freight train.
I gripped the edge of my bunk, forcing my face into neutral expression while my brain screamed. Blood dripped from my nose—I could taste copper.
"Miller. You good?"
I looked up at the CO. Nodded. Didn't trust my voice.
He marked his clipboard and moved on.
The moment he was gone, I collapsed onto my bunk, pressing my palms against my eyes. The contraband was hidden in my mattress. T-Bag would discover the theft in minutes.
Worth it. Had to be worth it.
T-Bag's scream echoed through A-Block at 1945.
"SOMEONE STOLE MY SHIT!"
Bellick appeared within sixty seconds, baton in hand, expression murderous. "What now, Bagwell?"
"Someone broke into my cell! Stole my—" T-Bag stopped, realizing what he was about to admit. "Stole my personal property."
"Personal property." Bellick's smile was all teeth. "What personal property? Everything you own is prison-issue or commissary. Unless you're talking about contraband, which would be a violation of prison rules."
T-Bag's face went through several shades of red.
"Search every cell," T-Bag demanded. "Someone came in here—"
"Nobody came in here. Doors were locked." Bellick gestured to the tier. "But sure. Let's search. Starting with yours."
The search turned up nothing, of course. The hollow space was empty. T-Bag's cellmate was clean.
They searched three more cells—including mine—before Bellick got bored.
"Looks like your 'personal property' just vanished, Bagwell. Maybe you should be more careful where you keep your imaginary possessions."
After Bellick left, the rumors started immediately.
The ghost again. The phantom. Something supernatural in Fox River.
I lay in my bunk, listening to the speculation, fighting the urge to vomit from the headache. Two minutes had nearly broken me. The Low Presence Zone was powerful, but the cost was brutal.
Can't use it like that again. Not until I'm stronger. Not unless I have no choice.
But watching T-Bag pace his cell like a caged animal, knowing he'd just been violated and couldn't prove it, couldn't retaliate, couldn't even admit what had been stolen?
The pain was worth it.
That night, I lay in darkness while Raul snored above me. My head still pounded, a dull throb that wouldn't quit. The cards shuffled between my fingers automatically, muscle memory keeping rhythm while my mind organized everything.
Tomorrow, Michael Scofield would arrive.
Tomorrow, a man with a masterplan tattooed on his skin would walk through Fox River's doors, already three steps ahead of everyone else.
Tomorrow, everything I'd been building toward would begin.
I was ready. Five days of groundwork, five days of establishing myself as the harmless entertainer, the useful distraction, the guy who saw patterns and made friends.
Michael would need allies. Smart ones. Capable ones. People who could think on their feet and execute under pressure.
I was going to make myself indispensable.
The cards whispered in my hands. My head throbbed. Tomorrow would change everything.
I smiled in the darkness.
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