The first rule of any plan was simple: never let it look like a plan.
At St. Bridge, routine was religion. If you broke rhythm, the walls noticed. So Jayden didn't. He followed every order, kept his head down, blended into the noise until he became part of it.
But inside, the map was growing.
---
The Guard
His first test came with the guard they called Hendrix—a man who'd worked there too long to still believe the words "rehabilitation." His uniform was always half-unbuttoned, his eyes dull but aware. Jayden had watched him sneak smokes by the laundry gate almost every night.
One evening, as Hendrix flicked ash into the drain, Jayden walked by slow, deliberate. "You ever get tired of the smell of bleach?" he asked.
Hendrix snorted without looking up. "I get tired of everything."
Jayden shrugged. "Could be worse."
"Could be better."
It wasn't a conversation—it was an opening. And Jayden knew openings when he saw them.
---
The Observation
Days became weeks. Jayden learned the rhythm of Hendrix's shifts: how he always swapped rounds at 11:45, how he left the side gate unlatched when sneaking for cigarettes, how his key ring always jingled twice before the sound of the lighter clicked.
Small details. Harmless ones. But enough to start building a rhythm that wasn't in the staff manual.
During workshop detail, Jayden began carving pieces of wire and scrap metal under the guise of "art therapy." Tiny sketches turned into shapes, shapes into pieces that could fit together later. Nothing obvious. Just fragments of possibility.
---
The Allies
Every facility had ghosts—the inmates who spoke little, listened much, and carried stories behind dead eyes. Jayden picked two.
Malik, who handled laundry and knew the timing of every delivery truck.
Ortiz, quiet, with hands like steel and a limp from an old riot.
They didn't ask why Jayden watched so closely. They just recognized the look in his eyes—the one that said I'm not trying to die here.
"You got that kind of fire," Ortiz said one night during kitchen duty. "Careful it don't eat you first."
Jayden smirked. "Fire doesn't eat. It cleans."
Malik grinned. "That sounds like something a crazy man says before everything burns."
"Or before something new gets built."
---
The Trigger
It wasn't about breaking out yet. It was about testing freedom.
One night, Jayden lingered near the laundry gate after curfew, listening for Hendrix's lighter. When he heard the metallic click, he moved.
"Hey," he whispered.
Hendrix jumped, spinning, hand on his baton. "Jesus, Carter. You looking to get shot?"
Jayden raised his hands. "Just needed air."
"You think I won't write you up?"
"Go ahead," Jayden said. "It's not like I'm leaving anywhere."
For a long second, Hendrix studied him, then sighed, lowering his hand. "Get back inside."
Jayden nodded, stepping past him. His eyes flicked once, quick and subtle, toward the latch. It hung loose, open just enough to slip a finger through.
He didn't move closer. Not yet. He just memorized the sound it made when it swung—the quiet creak of metal that would later echo in his mind like a heartbeat.
---
The Reflection
Back in his cell, Jayden lay awake, every nerve electric. He'd done nothing wrong, and yet everything had changed. The system worked by making people afraid of thinking about escape. Now, he wasn't afraid.
That was the first move.
He pulled out his sketchbook and flipped to the map. New lines joined the old ones: Hendrix's route, Malik's delivery window, Ortiz's access to supply keys.
He could see it forming now—a bridge of moments, of people, of timing. The kind of plan that looked like coincidence until it wasn't.
---
The Letter
That night, he did something he hadn't done in years. He tore a blank page from the back of his sketchbook and began to write.
> Layla,
I don't know if you'll ever read this. I don't even know where you are. But I found your name. I saw it on a file, and it felt like finding light in a place that forgot how to see.
If you're still fighting, don't stop. I'm not done yet. I'm finding a way out—not just from this place, but from all of it. I'll come find you. I swear.
If you're scared, remember what I told you once: fire doesn't run. It stands.
He folded the letter carefully, sliding it inside the cover of his sketchbook. It wasn't a message to send. It was a promise to keep.
---
The Sketch
On the last page, he drew three flames—his, Layla's, and one smaller one between them, the bridge connecting both.
Underneath, he wrote: Every cage has a crack. You just have to listen for it.
When he lay down, the storm outside had passed, but thunder still rolled in his chest.
Because now the fire wasn't just burning—it was aimed.