Morning came too quietly. The kind of quiet that doesn't mean peace — just a pause before something worse. Zeal hadn't slept. Her eyes were swollen, her fingers wrapped tightly around her mug like it could protect her from the world outside.
I tried to make her eat something, but she only stared at the door, as if willing it to keep him away.
"Do you think he knows where we live?" she whispered.
"He shouldn't. He's in prison, Zeal. He can't just walk out."
But I didn't sound convinced even to myself. I remembered the news from weeks ago — Prison Break at Westline Penitentiary. Three men had escaped, and among them… who knew? Could it be him?
And then I thought of the message Zeal had received the night before. Those words replayed in my mind like a warning siren: "You escaped once. You won't escape again."
I didn't know how he sent it. I couldn't. He was supposed to be locked up. Maybe he had smuggled a tiny phone into his cell, hidden somewhere only he knew. Or maybe he had already found a way out without us realizing it yet. Either possibility made my heart pound in my chest, wild and desperate.
I kept this thought to myself, because telling Zeal would only terrify her more — if that was even possible. I could see the fear lingering in her every movement, the way her fingers trembled around her mug, the way she kept checking the window as if sheer will could keep him away.
That morning, the silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional tap of rain against the window. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but my words felt hollow. How could I promise safety when I didn't even know if he was still in that prison cell, or already out there, somewhere, watching, planning, waiting?
She finally spoke again, her voice soft and wary. "Mercy… do you think he'll come for us?"
I swallowed hard, because my own answer was uncertain. "I don't know. But we'll be ready."
I tried to steady her with my presence, wrapping my arms around her shoulders, letting her rest her head against me. For a moment, we just held each other, silent, suspended in that fragile bubble of false safety.
I didn't tell her the truth — that the message could only have come from him, that he had found a way to reach us even while the authorities believed him trapped. That little phone, hidden in the shadows of his cell, was a silent, mocking proof that nothing could keep him contained.
And somewhere, out there, I knew it was Michael himself who decided when and how we would hear from him next. Not the police. Not luck. Not chance. Him.
The day stretched on, heavy and slow. We moved like ghosts through our own apartment, avoiding sudden sounds, avoiding each other's panicked glances. Every door we locked, every window we checked, felt insufficient. Because if Michael had the phone — or had already escaped — none of it would matter.
That night, we didn't sleep. We stayed together in the living room, whispering, holding hands, pretending we were safe. And in the dark, I could almost hear him laughing somewhere — the sound low, deliberate, terrifying.
He was out there. Waiting. Always watching.
⸻
Chapter 5: The Prisoner
Two weeks earlier.
Michael sat in his cell, his fingers tracing the cracks in the wall like they were veins of time. He had counted the days — one hundred and forty-six since the trial, one hundred and forty-six since Zeal testified against him.
But prison couldn't hold a man who believed he was owed something.
He had smuggled a tiny, nearly invisible phone into his cell months ago. Hidden cleverly, unused for most of the time. But tonight, he typed slowly, deliberately, sending the message that would twist Zeal's stomach into knots: "You escaped once. You won't escape again."
The guard that night had been careless — left his keychain too close, his trust too fragile. By the time the siren wailed, Michael was already crawling under the steel fence, rain mixing with blood on his skin.
He didn't run to freedom. He ran to revenge.
And before dawn, he found his way to the evidence room through an old contact. The phone was there — locked in a plastic bag. He wanted it not to clear his name, but to hear her voice again. To feel that power she once gave him — the voice that begged, the silence that followed.
He took it. He smiled.
"Miss me yet, Mercy?"