Chapter 9: Proving Ground - Day Three
The morning announcement came during breakfast. CO Stolte's voice crackled over the PA system, cutting through the usual chow hall chaos.
"Charles Patoshik, report to intake processing for cell reassignment."
My coffee cup stopped halfway to my mouth.
Haywire. Cell reassignment.
I scanned the room. Haywire sat three tables over, methodically eating his oatmeal, eyes tracking patterns only he could see. He didn't react to his name being called—probably didn't even register it.
But I registered it. And I knew exactly what it meant.
In the original timeline, Haywire had become Michael's cellmate. He'd seen the tattoo, recognized it as a blueprint, and nearly derailed the entire escape before it started.
Not this time.
I abandoned my breakfast and headed for the corridor.
Haywire was shuffling toward intake processing when I intercepted him. He stopped, head tilting like a confused bird.
"Patterns," he whispered. "The moving patterns."
"Hey, Charles." I kept my voice friendly, calm. "You seeing good patterns today?"
His eyes focused on me—or tried to. "You. The forgetting man. The space around you bends."
"Yeah, that's me." I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "Listen, I need to talk to you about patterns. Specific patterns. The kind that repeat in sequences of eight."
Haywire's pupils dilated. "Eight. Eight is sacred. Eight is the Fibonacci spiral compressed. Eight is—"
"Eight is dangerous," I interrupted, deliberately using the word I'd learned triggered his episodes. "Eight means the patterns are breaking. Eight means reality is fragmenting into recursive loops that don't terminate."
His breathing quickened. "No. No no no. Not the loops. The loops eat themselves. The patterns scream when they eat themselves."
"They're screaming now, Charles. Can you hear them?"
This was cruel. I knew it was cruel. But Michael's tattoo couldn't be exposed. Not now. Not when everything depended on secrecy.
Haywire's hands started shaking. "The screaming. The patterns are screaming. They're breaking. Eight times eight is sixty-four, sixty-four times eight is—"
"The infinite regression," I said, pushing the final button. "The pattern that consumes all other patterns."
Haywire's eyes rolled back. He dropped to his knees, hands pressed against his temples, mouth opening in a silent scream.
CO Stolte rounded the corner at a dead run. "Patoshik! What's—Miller, get back!"
I stepped away, hands raised. "I was just walking by. He started freaking out."
Two more guards appeared. They surrounded Haywire, who was now rocking back and forth, muttering about patterns and screaming spirals and the number eight eating reality.
"Get him to psych eval," Stolte ordered. "Code yellow. Possible self-harm risk."
They hauled Haywire away. He didn't resist, just kept muttering about infinite regressions.
I stood in the corridor, watching them go, fighting the nausea rising in my throat.
Necessary. It was necessary.
But Charles Patoshik's broken mind had just been shattered a little more because I'd deliberately triggered his worst fears.
Collateral damage. Just like the original Daniel Miller who died so I could live in his body.
I walked back to the chow hall, appetite gone.
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael was eating lunch when the announcement came.
"Charles Patoshik has been moved to psychiatric observation. Cell reassignment canceled pending evaluation."
Sucre looked up from his tray. "That's the crazy dude, right? The one who draws all those weird patterns?"
"I think so."
Michael had seen Patoshik around—the vacant eyes, the muttering, the way he stared at walls like they contained messages only he could read. Clearly unstable.
"Wonder what happened," Sucre said.
Michael returned to his food, but something nagged at the back of his mind. Patoshik had been scheduled for cell reassignment. To A-Block. Possibly to this very cell if the prison was consolidating for administrative efficiency.
But now he's in psych eval instead.
Michael's analytical mind started connecting dots he didn't want to connect.
Miller had given him a key yesterday. Had demonstrated exceptional skills for three straight days. Had somehow deduced Michael's connection to Lincoln, his deliberate imprisonment, possibly even the existence of the tattoo.
Could Miller have known about the reassignment? Could he have prevented it?
It seemed impossible. But so did everything else Miller had done.
I need to talk to him. Today.
DANIEL'S POV
I faked the injury at 1400.
Slipped on the stairs leading to B-Block, went down hard, scraped my palms on the concrete. Real blood, real pain. The guards saw it happen—pure accident, nothing suspicious.
CO Patterson helped me up. "You okay, Miller?"
I flexed my hands. The palms were raw, bleeding sluggishly. "Think so. Just scraped up."
"Better get that checked. Don't want it infected. Report to the infirmary."
"Yes sir."
The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and institutional hopelessness. Three beds lined one wall, all empty. Medical supplies in locked cabinets. A desk where the prison doctor—Dr. Sara Tancredi—sat reviewing charts.
She looked up when I entered. "What happened?"
"Fell on the stairs. Scraped my hands."
"Let me see."
I extended my palms. She examined them with professional efficiency, her touch gentle but clinical.
And I cold-read everything.
Late twenties. Governor's daughter—the resemblance to the political photos I'd seen was unmistakable once you knew to look. Compassionate expression, genuine concern in her eyes. But underneath: exhaustion. Dark circles covered with makeup. The slight tremor in her hands that wasn't nervousness—withdrawal. Recovering addict, probably pills, fighting every day to stay clean.
And lonely. God, so lonely. The kind of loneliness that came from being surrounded by people but trusted by none.
"These need cleaning," she said, reaching for the antiseptic. "This will sting."
"I can handle it."
She worked in silence, swabbing the wounds with practiced efficiency. I watched her face, read the microexpressions.
"You're good at this," I said.
"It's my job."
"No, I mean you care. Most people in here—guards, doctors, whoever—they stop caring after a while. You haven't."
Her hands paused fractionally. "What makes you say that?"
"The way you're cleaning these scrapes like they actually matter. Like I'm a person, not just an inmate number." I paused. "Must be hard, caring about people who are locked up for doing terrible things."
Sara's jaw tightened. "Everyone deserves basic medical care."
"I agree. But not everyone believes that." I studied her face. "Your father probably doesn't. Governor, right? I've seen his speeches. Tough on crime, tough on criminals. Must create some interesting dinner conversations."
She looked up sharply. "How did you—"
"You've got his eyes. Same shape, same color. And the way you flinched when I mentioned him tells me the relationship's complicated." I smiled gently. "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone the governor's daughter is working in Fox River. Your secret's safe."
Sara finished bandaging my hands, her expression carefully neutral. "You're very observant, Mr. Miller."
"Danny. And yeah, it's a gift. Or a curse. Depending on the day."
"Well, Danny." She stepped back. "Keep these clean. Change the bandages twice a day. Come back if there's any sign of infection."
"Thanks, Doc."
As I turned to leave, she spoke again. "Danny? Why are you here? You don't seem like someone who belongs in prison."
I looked back. "I made bad choices. Trusted the wrong person. Paid the price."
"Do you regret it?"
"Every day." That was true, at least for the original Daniel. "But regret doesn't change the past. Just shapes the future."
Sara nodded slowly. "That's surprisingly philosophical."
"I have a lot of time to think in here." I paused at the door. "You're doing good work, Doc. Don't let this place take that away from you."
SARA'S POV
Sara Tancredi sat at her desk after Miller left, staring at her hands.
He'd read her. Completely. Seen through every wall she'd carefully constructed.
Governor's daughter. Recovering addict. Lonely.
All true. All things she never discussed with anyone.
How had he known?
And why had his words—you're doing good work—hit so hard? Like he'd seen not just who she was, but who she was trying to be.
Sara pulled out her phone, stared at her father's last text message. Dinner Tuesday. Don't be late.
She put the phone away and went back to her charts.
But Daniel Miller's words echoed: Don't let this place take that away from you.
DANIEL'S POV
I found Lincoln in the yard at 1600. He was lifting weights in the corner, his massive frame moving with controlled precision. Sweat gleamed on his skin despite the April chill.
I waited until he finished his set before approaching.
"Lincoln Burrows."
He looked up, expression immediately suspicious. "Yeah?"
"Daniel Miller. People call me Danny."
"I know who you are. The magic guy." Lincoln grabbed his towel, wiped his face. "What do you want?"
"Just wanted to say your brother's a good man. He's here for you. You know that, right?"
Lincoln's eyes narrowed. "How do you know my brother?"
"I'm his cellmate's friend. Sucre talks about him. Says Michael's quiet, smart, keeps to himself." I paused. "Also says Michael stares at you every time you're in the yard together. Kind of obvious what that means."
"You got something to say, say it."
I met his eyes. "I respect loyalty. The kind of loyalty that makes a man engineer his own imprisonment to save his brother. That's rare. That's worth protecting."
Lincoln took a step forward. He was six inches taller and probably eighty pounds heavier. Intimidating as hell.
"What's it to you?"
"I'm going to help you both get out of here."
Lincoln laughed. It was a harsh, bitter sound. "You're crazy."
"Maybe. But I'm useful crazy." I didn't back down, didn't flinch. "Your brother's planning something. Something big. He needs people he can trust. People with skills. I'm offering."
"Offering what?"
"Whatever he needs. I can steal things. Read people. Make problems disappear." I smiled. "Like the Haywire problem this morning. Bet Michael doesn't even know that happened."
"The hell are you talking about?"
"Nothing you need to worry about. Just know that I'm on your side. Both of you." I turned to leave, then looked back. "Oh, and Lincoln? Your brother loves you more than anything in this world. Don't waste time questioning that. Just trust him."
I walked away before he could respond.
LINCOLN'S POV
Lincoln stood in the yard, towel in his hands, watching Miller disappear into the crowd.
What the hell was that?
Michael was planning something. Lincoln had known that from the moment his little brother showed up in Fox River with a bullshit armed robbery charge. Michael didn't rob banks. Michael solved structural problems with mathematical precision.
But this Miller kid—how did he know? And what did he mean about the Haywire problem?
Lincoln dropped onto the weight bench and stared at his hands.
Thirty days until they kill me for a murder I didn't commit.
If Michael was planning an escape—and Lincoln was now certain he was—then every ally mattered. Every advantage counted.
Useful crazy might be exactly what we need.
DANIEL'S POV
That evening, I found Sucre in the common area.
"Hermano, I need you to deliver a message to Michael."
Sucre looked up from his letter to Maricruz. "Sure, man. What's up?"
"Tell him tomorrow. Noon. Library. Final proof, then we talk for real."
"That's kind of mysterious, Danny."
"Yeah, well. Michael likes mysteries." I clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks."
"No problem. Hey, you think this sounds good?" Sucre held up his letter. "I told Maricruz about the card trick you taught me. Think she'll like it?"
"She'll love it, hermano. You're going to make her smile."
"I hope so, man. I really hope so."
I left him to his letter and headed back to my cell.
Tomorrow was the big reveal. Tomorrow I'd tell Michael everything I "knew" and pray he was desperate enough to take the risk.
My hands shuffled cards in the darkness, muscle memory keeping perfect rhythm.
One more day. Then everything changes.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1