Max didn't like killing.He also didn't like being caged.
And in his experience, when it came to survival, people always lied about which one they hated more.
Janitorial Supply Room – Sublevel East Wing
The building's heartbeat echoed through the pipes as Max twisted the industrial valve to the fire suppression system. One click. Then another. The wrench bit down hard, hissing a warning that what he was doing was very much irreversible.
In one bucket: Bleach.In the other: Ammonia.
A chemical cocktail that, when vaporized into the ventilation and sprinkler system, would flood the cell blocks with chloramine gas — potentially fatal.
He slid the mixture into the intake port beneath the steel grating, timing it with the pressure cycle he'd memorized from earlier maintenance rounds. It would distribute across the upper tiers by morning. If he could trigger a false alarm, everything would activate.
Fire was the problem.
He needed a flame.
Cellblock 10 – Adrian's Cell (Abandoned)
The door was still marked with police tape, but the guards didn't check twice for janitors.
Adrian had seized out in front of everyone yesterday, and they were still pretending not to care.
Max worked quickly, scanning the room like a scavenger in enemy territory. There were signs of withdrawal — nail scratches on the wall, spit stains, a cracked mirror. Under the cot, behind a loose brick, he found what little remained.
A clear sandwich bag, mostly dust and residue.Just enough to spike a panic. Not enough to sell.
Good. That made it easier.
He pocketed the bag and shut the cell quietly, glancing down both sides of the hall. His stomach tightened, not out of guilt — he had long since stopped checking for that — but out of anticipation.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow it all burned.
Yard – Corner Bench Beneath a Broken Light
He spotted him from across the yard. Sitting on a bench like he owned the cold concrete around him.
Alexei "Volk" Mirov.Tall, thin, balding. Tattoos like newspaper headlines inked across his neck and knuckles. He wasn't the strongest, but Volk had one thing no one else did:
Connections.
Max approached casually, leaning on his mop like it was a cane.
"Volk."
Alexei didn't look up at first.
"Janitor-boy," he muttered in thick-accented English. "Come to mop my balls?"
Max didn't smile.
"You had a deal with Adrian. You knew he'd get hit. I need a lighter. A real one."
Volk chuckled. "You gonna smoke his ashes?"
Max leaned in, lowering his voice.
"I'm not asking."
There was something in Max's voice — calm, but sharpened like a broken bottle — that made Volk go quiet. He looked up slowly, eyes squinting.
"Under my bunk. It's taped behind the third spring coil. Take it, but don't come asking again."
Max gave him a mock salute and walked away.
"Don't worry," Max said without turning back, "you're not on the guest list."
Max's Cell – Late Night
He waited until the hallway lights dimmed for night cycle. His cellmate snored on the bottom bunk — still nursing a jaw Max had dislocated earlier in the week.
Max climbed up, reached beneath the mattress and pulled the lighter out from behind the rusted spring coil.
He held it in his palm like it was the key to something sacred.
The bag of cocaine. The lighter. The chemicals in the system. The fire alarm wire he'd sabotaged two days ago during a mop-up in the mess hall.
All pieces in motion.
Internal Monologue
He stared out the six-inch window slit, where the night sky bled into the horizon in a band of steel gray.
"I'm not Quicksilver," he muttered aloud.
"I'm not a hero."
"I'm something they made. Something they woke up too early."
His hand trembled — not from fear, but from restraint.
His powers still hadn't fully awakened. He'd felt flickers — like sparks behind his eyes, pressure in his calves, time distorting during stress. But he couldn't will it yet.
It was like the engine was online but the ignition key was missing.
Maybe the fire… would find it.
Speed was the thing that killed Pietro Maximoff.
Maybe, just maybe, it's the thing that will save me.
Dream Sequence – Crimson Void
Max is falling again — like every dream before.
Only this time, it's not white light — it's red.
He falls through a city on fire. Faces burn, shadows flicker, laughter echoes backwards.
The voice again — layered, raw, broken:
"Speed is a curse."
"The faster you run… the faster they find you."
"And they're coming, Max."
"They always come for the broken ones."
Max jolts upright, heart pounding.
He checks the clock.
05:32 AM.
Fire Alarm Panel, Cafeteria Wall
Max, dressed in his janitor uniform, crouches beneath the alarm box.
He pulls a hidden matchhead from his sock, slides it into the lighter, ignites the torn rag soaked in cocaine, and slips it into the modified alarm chamber.
The countdown begins.
Tomorrow… the fire rains.