Page 31 of Infamous

When he drops, I take his keys before his head hits the floor.

The air tastes like copper and smoke. The block shakes under an explosion, fire tearing through the east wing.

Guards scream. Inmates howl. The noise becomes one long, endless wail. I don’t hear it anymore.

The corridor ahead glows red and white; my path, my pulse.

A pack of inmates drag a guard past me, knives flashing, laughter manic. They don’t see me. I’m not part of their chaos. Their vengeance is blind. Mine is focused.

The infirmary door bangs against its hinges. I push through. Wanda waits. Her face is pale, eyes sharp. A folded uniform sits on the counter like salvation.

“You’re late,” she hisses.

I don’t answer. I strip fast, the fabric sticking to my skin, sweat smearing dark on the fresh shirt.

She chews her lip raw, trembling but not stopping. Smart woman.

“Laundry corridor,” she whispers. “Van’s waiting.”

We move.

The hall ahead burns red, alarms howling. A guard rounds the corner, shotgun raised. His eyes flick to the badge on my chest - confusion, then recognition. Too late. I wrench the weapon from him, swing hard. The butt cracks his jaw. Teeth scatter across concrete. One more blow caves his skull.

Wanda flinches but keeps moving. She knows better than to speak.

The corridor shakes beneath our boots, the air thick with smoke. Sparks rain from above, burning tiny holes into my skin.

“This is it,” she says, voice shaking as she hands me the badge.

I nod.

There are no words left. Only freedom.

I shoulder through the south dock door. Cold air hits me like a blade. The first breath of freedom in ten years burns my throat raw. It tastes like smoke. Like blood. Like the death of everything I used to be.

Behind me, Ford Penitentiary burns - steel screaming, men wailing, the monster that caged me collapsing into ash.

Ahead, a van idles, its engine purring. The door is open. That’s my escape. I don’t look back.

Lucian died a long time ago.

Ghost burned with the prison.

And what walks out of that fire, is something far worse.

I slideinto the back of the van. The metal floor rattles under my boots.

Wanda climbs in after me, slamming the doors shut. The echo sounds like a gunshot.

A second later, the engine growls, low and steady, and the vibration rolls through my bones. The tires screech, rubber burning as we lurch into the night.

For the first time in ten years, there are no bars. No guards. No walls closing in like a coffin. Just motion. Forward. Away.Freedom.

I lean back against the steel wall. The metal bites through my shirt, cold and grounding. I draw in a breath to steady myself. Across from me, Wanda sits rigid, knees drawn tight, knuckles white. Her shoulders locked. Her eyes anywhere buton me. She’s not afraid of the sirens fading behind us. She’s afraid ofme.And she should be.

Up front, the driver handles the wheel like he was born for it. Big guy, masked, silent. The kind of man who doesn’t need orders to know where to go. He never turns around.

I don’t ask his name. The Gatti family doesn’t hire amateurs. Whoever he is, he’s here for one purpose - to deliver the package that isme.