Chapter 8: Proving Ground - Day Two
Breakfast in the chow hall. I grabbed my tray—oatmeal that looked like paste, toast, coffee that could strip paint—and scanned the room.
Michael was sitting alone at a corner table, methodically eating oatmeal. His movements were precise, controlled, the kind of discipline that came from treating every action like it mattered.
I walked over and sat down across from him without asking permission.
He looked up, spoon pausing halfway to his mouth.
"Morning, Pretty," I said, dumping sugar into my coffee.
His eyebrow raised fractionally. "Pretty?"
"Yeah. You've got that look. Clean-cut, symmetrical features, perfect posture. Bet you were popular with the ladies before you got in here."
"I'd prefer you didn't—"
"You had oatmeal with brown sugar," I interrupted, stirring my coffee. "Black coffee—no cream, no sugar. You're avoiding the scrambled eggs because you saw the cook not wash his hands after scratching his face. The coffee's cold because you were distracted reading something small. Probably a piece of paper you've got hidden in your left pocket."
Michael's hand moved fractionally toward his pocket before he caught himself.
I smiled. "And your brother's execution date is in three months. That's why you're here."
The color drained from his face.
"Lucky guesses," he said, but his voice was tight.
"Sure." I took a sip of terrible coffee. "Keep telling yourself that."
I stood, grabbed my tray, and walked away before he could respond.
Behind me, I felt his eyes tracking my movement, felt the gears in his mind spinning faster.
Hook deeper.
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael sat frozen at the table, spoon forgotten in his hand.
Miller had just cold-read him with surgical precision. Every detail accurate—the oatmeal, the coffee, the cook's hygiene, even the piece of origami tucked in his pocket that he'd been studying before breakfast.
How? How could he possibly—
And Lincoln's execution date. Miller knew. Which meant he'd either researched Michael's background or—
Or he's been watching me. Studying me. Building a profile.
Michael's mind raced through scenarios. Miller was either:
An intelligence operative planted to monitor himA con artist looking to leverage informationSomeone genuinely skilled at observation who'd noticed Michael's connection to Lincoln
None of the options were good.
But the key demonstration yesterday. The fight prediction. The misdirection. All of it pointed to someone with exceptional skills and questionable motives.
I need to know what he wants. I need to control this before it controls me.
The library at 1100 was quiet. Michael sat at a table in the back corner, pretending to read while his mind organized information.
He didn't hear Miller approach until the man was already sliding into the chair across from him.
"We need to talk," Miller said quietly.
Michael closed his book. "About what?"
"About the fact that you're planning something. About the fact that you got yourself sent here deliberately. About the fact that you're carrying something important on your body that you check constantly when you think nobody's watching."
Michael's blood went cold. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." Miller leaned forward, voice dropping even lower. "Come on, Pretty. You've got a map on your body. I don't know what it is yet—blueprints, schematics, something structural—but I know it's there. I want in."
"In what?"
"Whatever you're planning."
Michael's hand moved instinctively toward his chest, touching the fabric over his ribs where the infirmary layout was tattooed. He caught himself, dropped his hand.
Too late. Miller's eyes tracked the movement.
"Give me three days to prove I'm useful," Miller said. "Then we talk. Really talk. About what you need and what I can do."
"What makes you think I need anything?"
Miller smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Because desperate men don't get elaborate tattoos and then rob banks to get sent to specific prisons. Because loving brothers don't sit idly by while their siblings wait on death row. Because you're not a criminal, Michael. You're an engineer solving a structural problem."
The words hit like hammer blows.
He knows. He doesn't know everything, but he knows enough to be dangerous.
"And if I don't want your help?" Michael asked, voice deadly quiet.
"Then I walk away and you try to do this alone. But we both know alone is harder. Alone is riskier. Alone means higher probability of failure." Miller stood. "Three days, Pretty. Watch what I can do. Then decide."
He walked away, leaving Michael sitting in stunned silence.
DANIEL'S POV
I'd pushed hard. Maybe too hard.
But Michael needed to understand I wasn't just another inmate. I was someone who could see the shape of his plan even without knowing the details.
Now I wait. Let him process. Let him realize that shutting me out is more dangerous than bringing me in.
The afternoon dragged. I performed a few card tricks in the yard, helped Sucre with his sleight of hand practice, played chess with Westmoreland.
All the while, I tracked Michael's movements from the corner of my eye. He was in his cell mostly, pacing like a caged animal, clearly wrestling with the decision.
Come on. Be smart. You need me.
Evening count at 1900. Inmates at their cell doors, hands behind backs, COs walking the tiers.
I stood at my door, watching Bellick move down the line. He was three cells away when I made my move.
Activated Low Presence Zone. Just thirty seconds. Just enough.
I slipped out of my cell, moved to the blind spot by the storage closet, accessed the maintenance kit I'd hidden there days ago. Found what I needed—clay molding compound and a set of precision tools.
Twenty seconds.
The headache started building.
I'd stolen Bellick's keys yesterday and made an impression. Now I sculpted the copy using the clay mold, working with frantic precision.
Twenty-five seconds.
The key took shape—simple cell key, standard Fox River issue. I finished it, pocketed it, returned the tools.
Thirty seconds.
Back in my cell just as Bellick reached my door. Dropped the field.
The pain spiked. Not as bad as last time—I was getting better at managing the costs—but still brutal.
"Miller."
I nodded, keeping my face neutral while my head throbbed.
Bellick moved on.
Two hours later, after lights out, I made my way to Michael's cell.
Sucre was already snoring on the top bunk. Michael sat at the small desk, reading by the faint light from the corridor.
I tossed the key through the bars. It landed on his desk with a soft clink.
Michael spun, eyes wide.
I met his gaze through the bars. "Day one of three. Tomorrow's proof will be even better."
Then I walked away before he could respond.
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael stared at the key on his desk.
He picked it up slowly, examining it in the dim light. Standard cell key. Perfect craftsmanship. The kind of quality that required professional tools and expertise.
He made this. Somehow, he accessed materials, copied Bellick's key, and created a functional duplicate.
Michael's mind raced through the implications.
Miller had just given him the ability to leave his cell at night. To access restricted areas. To move freely during lockdown.
This changes everything.
But why? Why would Miller give him this without knowing the full plan? Without demanding anything in return?
Unless—
Unless he already knows enough that giving me the key proves his value more than words ever could.
Michael sat in darkness, turning the key over in his fingers.
Thirty days until Lincoln's execution. Seven hundred and twenty hours.
He needed allies. Needed people with skills he didn't have. Needed someone who could steal, manipulate, and adapt on the fly.
Miller had just demonstrated all three capabilities in less than forty-eight hours.
Can I trust him?
Above him, Sucre's snoring continued, oblivious to the turning point happening in the cell below.
Michael pocketed the key and lay down on his bunk.
Two more days. I'll give him two more days to prove himself. Then we talk.
Really talk.
DANIEL'S POV
I lay in my bunk, mind palace organizing everything.
The key was the clincher. Physical proof of capability. Undeniable evidence that I could deliver results.
Michael would spend tonight analyzing it, testing it, confirming its functionality. And when he realized it was perfect—when he understood that I'd created it in less than twenty-four hours using prison resources—he'd start seeing me as essential rather than optional.
My head still ached from the Low Presence Zone, but it was manageable. The powers were growing stronger, more controlled. I just needed to be careful not to push too hard too fast.
Two more days of demonstrations. Then the real negotiation would begin.
The cards shuffled in my hands, muscle memory keeping perfect rhythm in the darkness.
Michael Scofield was smart, careful, paranoid.
But he was also desperate. And desperate men made calculated risks.
I was betting everything that I could make myself too valuable to ignore.
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