Chapter 9 - Whispers in the ConcreteThe heavy steel door of Cell Block Delta slammed shut with a sound that vibrated straight through David Vance’s marrow.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look up from the damp, stained concrete floor. For two years, time had lost its meaning, measured only by the rhythmic clanking of the guards' boots and the drip of a leaky pipe in the corner of his six-by-eight cage.
He was a ghost in an iron tomb.
The grand illusion of his life—the sports cars, the penthouses, the stolen empire—had dissolved into the stench of cheap disinfectant and sulfur. Yet, beneath his hollowed-out exterior, a slow-burning, toxic embers of obsession still flickered. He didn't want freedom anymore. Freedom meant facing a world where she reigned supreme, a world that laughed at his pathetic attempt to play the executioner.
He wanted blood. He wanted to shatter her perfection just once, even if it cost him his remaining breath.
A sharp, metallic clink echoed down the corridor, breaking the monotonous silence.
David raised his head, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. Guards rarely stopped at his cell unless it was mealtime or lockdown. But this sound was different—deliberate, measured, and accompanied by the heavy tread of soft-soled tactical boots.
Two men in unblemished federal inspection uniforms stopped outside his bars. Their faces were obscured by the dim shadows of the corridor, but their posture reeked of absolute, untouchable authority.
"David Vance?" the lead guard asked, his voice flat, devoid of any human emotion.
David didn't answer. He slowly pushed himself up from his narrow cot, leaning against the cold stone wall. "If you're here to transfer me to another hole, save your breath. They're all the same."
The guard didn't blink. Instead, he reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a small, heavy silver key, and slid it into the heavy manual lock.
Click.
The bolt turned. The heavy iron door swung open an inch.
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David’s breath caught in his throat. Maximum-security cells were never unlocked from the outside unless a federal execution order had been signed or an extreme directive had been issued.
"Step out, Vance," the guard ordered, gesturing with a gloved hand toward the dark corridor. "You have a visitor."
