DOCTOR CHRISTIAN
At San Quentin Rehabilitation Center, I sit across from my boss, engrossed in a chess game. The echoes of clanging steel doors and distant shouts form a backdrop to the strategic silence between us. Just as my knight closes in on his queen, I notice my boss's gaze shift over my shoulder.
A young man strolls past, his shoulders relaxed but his eyes sharp. He doesn't belong here—at least not in spirit.
"See something you like, kid?" my boss asks, his tone more curious than aggressive.
The young man stops, his gaze lingering on the chessboard. "Just watching."
"Watching?" My boss rises, his chair scraping loudly against the concrete. I stand, trailing behind as he approaches the newcomer. "You got a habit of staring, or am I just lucky today?"
The young man shrugs, unbothered. "Just minding my own business."
"Yeah? Well, make sure it stays that way."
Before the tension boils over, a nearby officer intervenes, his hand resting lightly on his baton. "Everything alright here?"
"We're fine," my boss grumbles, waving him off. But his posture remains tense as the young man walks away, unhurried.
---
Later, during the evening headcount, chaos erupts in the common area. Fists fly, and blood spills as rival gangs clash. My boss grabs my arm, his voice a low growl. "We need to go. Now."
But before we can move, a figure emerges from the crowd. It's the young man again—but he's not walking this time. He's running.
Then it happens. A flash of silver. My boss staggers, clutching his neck as blood pours through his fingers. "Go!" he gasps, falling to his knees.
I freeze. My partner yanks me backward, and we retreat through the shouting mass of bodies. The last thing I see is the young man, his face grim, disappearing into the chaos.
---
The next day, I can't get him out of my mind. Derek Thompson. The name comes up again and again as I dig for information. Whispers from other inmates tell a story: a kid orphaned by violence, taken in by Jude Johnson, the vigilante known as Night Raven. Together, they cleaned up Washington DC until Derek went solo, becoming the hero Night Blade.
But the hero is gone. Now he's just another inmate, wearing the same orange uniform as the rest of us.
Desperate for protection after the attack on my boss, my partner and I approach Derek's cell. He's sitting on his bunk, flipping a makeshift blade between his fingers.
"Derek," I begin, my voice shaky. "We need your help."
He doesn't even look up. "I'm not in the hero business anymore."
"But you were," my partner presses. "We've heard the stories. Washington DC. Night Blade. You saved people."
Derek laughs bitterly. "And look where it got me."
"We don't have anyone else." My voice cracks. "They'll kill us if we don't get out."
For a moment, there's only silence. Then he sighs, the blade clinking as it hits the floor. "Fine. But if you screw this up, I'm leaving you behind."
---
The Escape
The prison is alive with tension as Derek leads us through shadowed hallways, his movements precise and silent. Every step feels like a gamble.
"Stay close. No noise," he whispers, his voice razor-sharp.
As we round a corner, a guard spots us. The man reaches for his radio, but Derek is faster. In a blur, he sweeps the guard's legs out from under him and delivers a sharp jab to his temple.
"Move," he snaps, tossing the guard's baton to my partner.
We reach the loading dock, where a van idles, ready for transport. Derek glances at me. "When the guards come, make noise. Big noise. I'll handle the rest."
....
Moments later, the sound of pounding boots echoes down the corridor. Three officers charge toward us, their faces hard with determination. My pulse quickens, each step they take hammering home the danger of what we're about to do.
"When the guards come," Derek's earlier instructions play in my mind, his voice cold and steady. "Make noise. Big noise. I'll handle the rest."
The officers reach us, barking sharp orders. Their movements are swift and practiced as they clamp the cold steel of handcuffs around our wrists. The bite of the cuffs feels final, like a sentence etched in metal. They yank us to our feet and herd us forward, flanked on all sides by their watchful, calculating eyes.
The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, casting a harsh glow on the linoleum floor. Every step we take brings us closer to the main hall, where tension thickens with every breath. The air crackles with anticipation, and Derek's plan hangs in the balance—a desperate gamble with everything at stake.
Then my partner gives me the signal: a sharp, deliberate glance in my direction.
This is it.
I take a deep breath and let out a sharp, guttural yell. It's raw and primal, designed to break their focus and sow confusion.
"What the—?" one of the officers spins toward me, startled.
That's all I need.
I whip my cuffed hands upward, slamming them down on the bridge of his nose. The crack is audible as blood spurts, and he stumbles back, clutching his face. Beside me, my partner lunges forward, smashing his forehead into another officer's jaw. The man reels, disoriented, but doesn't go down.
"Stay down!" one officer barks, his baton already swinging.
The strike lands hard against my ribs, pain exploding through my side and stealing the air from my lungs. I crumple, gasping, the world spinning around me.
But before the officer can deliver another blow, Derek is there.
He moves like a shadow, his boot slamming into the man's thigh with brutal force. The officer lets out a strangled cry, collapsing to the floor. Derek doesn't hesitate. He snatches up the man's baton, spinning it in his hand as another guard rushes him.
The baton arcs through the air and cracks against the side of the guard's head. He crumples instantly, his body limp as he hits the ground.
Derek turns, his eyes locking on the last officer. "You really want to do this?" he growls.
The officer hesitates, gripping his baton tighter. But Derek doesn't wait.
He ducks under the officer's wild swing, seizing his wrist and twisting it sharply. The baton clatters to the floor as the officer lets out a yelp of pain. Derek follows up with a quick, sharp punch to the chest, and the man stumbles back, gasping for air.
"Go!" Derek barks, tossing the baton to me.
I catch it, still wheezing from the earlier blow, and scramble to my feet. My partner and I bolt down the corridor, the alarms blaring behind us. Red lights flash overhead as the prison descends into chaos.
Derek catches up easily, his movements fluid and controlled. "Stick to the wall," he orders, his voice sharp. "Don't stop!"
We sprint toward the loading dock, the exit looming ahead. A single guard stands at the gate, his weapon raised and aimed at us.
Derek doesn't slow. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket—where he got them, I have no idea—and hurls them with deadly precision. One strikes the guard's hand, sending his weapon clattering to the floor. The second smashes the padlock on the gate, breaking it open.
"Move!" Derek shouts.
We burst through the gate into the cool night air, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. The van waits just ahead, its engine idling. I leap into the driver's seat, fumbling with the keys as my hands tremble.
"Hurry up!" Derek snaps, glancing over his shoulder as shouts grow louder behind us.
The engine roars to life, and I slam the van into gear. As we speed through the gates, a guard fires at us, the bullets pinging off the van's metal frame. Derek yanks the door shut, his face grim.
The prison fades into the distance behind us, swallowed by the night.
---
The Jet
Hours later, we arrive at a secluded airstrip. A sleek private jet waits, its engines humming softly. A man in a tailored suit greets us at the stairs.
"You must be Vincent," he says, handing me a bundle of clothes.
"What's this?" I ask.
"A new look," he replies with a smirk. "Derek said you'd need it."
My partner emerges in a crisp blue suit, while I pull on a deep red one. For the first time in days, I feel like a person, not a prisoner.
The man gestures to the jet. "Where to?"
"Nigeria," I say without hesitation. "It's time to go home."
The engines roar as the jet takes off, carrying us into the night. As the prison fades into the distance, I glance at Derek, who sits silently, staring out the window. His reflection looks haunted, but for now, we're free.