Lucian's hand trembled slightly as he shoved the crude knife into the lock of his cell door. His fingers tightened around the handle, his knuckles pale under the dim, flickering light of the cell block. He twisted the blade carefully, willing it to move the tumblers inside, praying it would be enough.
This has to work, he thought. There wasn't another option.
Ideally, he would've had the key—the simple, perfect solution. But that was as likely as the guards handing him a golden ticket out of here and it would never in a million years happen .
The next best tool would've been a long, thin wire. With one of those, he could have carefully worked the lock open in just a few minutes. But all he had was this battered knife, its edge chipped and dulled from years of use. It wasn't the right tool, but it was all he had.
Lucian shoved the blade deeper into the lock and twisted again, his movements rough and desperate. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, slowly trailing down the sides of his face and dripping onto his collar. The shirt clung to his damp skin, uncomfortably sticky, but he couldn't stop now.
Other beads trailed forwards, threatening to drop in his eyes, these ones, he cleaned off with his shoulder.
The other prisoners had started to notice what he was doing. One by one, they pressed their faces against the bars of their cells, their eyes gleaming with curiosity and something darker—hope.
The noise in the cell block began to fade. The rowdy laughter, the idle chatter, even the occasional clanging of metal bowls against the bars—all of it dwindled into silence. It was an eerie quiet, unnatural in this place of chaos.
Lucian glanced up briefly, his heart pounding harder. The prisoners had fallen silent to help him, to make sure no guards came to check on them. But to Lucian, the silence felt like a noose tightening around his neck.
This isn't good, he thought.
Prisons were rowdy by nature, the guards were used to the noise—the shouts, the fights, the endless commotion. Silence was suspicious. It was a red flag that something was wrong.
While Lucian was fighting the three cellmates, a part of him had been expecting prison guards to rush in the place with all the noise and screams going on.
However he was surprised to see that no single guard checked on them.
This meant that they were used to events like that happening.
To such guards who are used to violence and commotion common from the block, a sudden silence would alert them and make them suspicious of what was going on there.
His mind raced as he worked the knife furiously, his breath quickening. He couldn't afford for the guards to come now. If they caught him with the knife, it would be confiscated, and he'd lose the only tool he had. He'd also lose the sliver of hope keeping him going.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. His fingers cramped around the knife's handle, but he refused to stop. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to him like a second skin, the damp fabric chafing against his back and shoulders.
For a moment, panic surged through him. What if it doesn't work? What if this stupid knife isn't enough? He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe through the rising anxiety. He couldn't think about failure—not now.
And then he heard it.
Click.
The sound was faint but sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Lucian froze, his breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he pushed the cell door. It creaked open, the hinges groaning softly as though reluctant to release him.
The silence broke.
A wave of cheers erupted from the prisoners around him. Faces pressed harder against the bars of their cells, and hands reached out, clawing at the air in desperation.
"Me next!" one shouted, his voice hoarse with excitement.
"No, help me first!" another begged.
Their voices overlapped, a chaotic chorus of hope and desperation. But Lucian ignored them. He stepped out of his cell, the cool air of the corridor brushing against his sweat-slicked skin.
He turned back to the lock, wrapping his hand firmly around the knife's handle. He pulled once, twice, but the blade wouldn't budge. His hands were slick with sweat, and the knife remained stubbornly jammed in the lock.
Gritting his teeth, he added his other hand, pulling with all his strength. The muscles in his arms strained, and veins bulged beneath his skin, but still, the knife wouldn't move.
Frustration bubbled up inside him. Not now, he thought. Come on, just come loose!
He adjusted his grip, pulling at an angle this time. The knife shifted slightly, and for a brief, hopeful moment, he thought he had it. But then—
Snap.
The blade broke in two, the jagged edge still stuck in the lock.
Lucian stared at the broken knife in his hand, disbelief washing over him like a cold tide. The only real weapon he had was now useless, reduced to a shattered piece of metal.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. His fingers curled around the broken handle, his grip tightening until his knuckles ached. "What bad luck is this?"
The prisoners continued to clamor around him, their voices rising in a cacophony of demands. "Help us! Open our cells!" they shouted, their desperation palpable.
Lucian ignored them, his mind racing as he scanned the corridor for another weapon, something—anything—he could use to defend himself. He couldn't escape unarmed, not here, not now.
But there was nothing. Lucian's eyes darted around the dim corridor one last time, searching for anything he could use—a shard of metal, a loose pipe, even a heavy rock. But the empty shadows offered no help.
He sighed, his shoulders sinking under the weight of his frustration. He would have to leave this block without a weapon, a decision that filled him with unease. Walking through the prison unarmed felt like stepping into a storm without shelter.
Lucian clenched his fists, the tension in his body mounting. He had no choice but to move forward and hope for the best. Maybe the next block would have something useful—a piece of equipment left behind, or even an improvised weapon he could grab.
Above all, he prayed he wouldn't encounter any guards before then. Without a weapon, survival would depend entirely on luck—and luck had never been his friend.