"Hands up!" I fired before they reached for their belts. Two guards went down without sound. One's head snapped back. The other never moved his hand off the holster. I caught the slide of his pistol with my fingers, twisted, and broke his wrist with a single twist. He snarled and passed out like a child. "Move," I said. My voice was low. The corridor smelled of rust and bleach. "You can't be here," the second guard muttered, trying to pull himself up. "I can," I answered. I took his weapon off the fallen man, checked the rounds. Clean, full. "You're not supposed to—" he started. "I know the layout," I cut in. "You left your door unlocked." He stared at me. Panic made him loud. "Order's been given—" "Then obey the order to die quietly," I said, and I forced the muzzle between his ribs. He went quieter. He tried to bargain with me with names and ranks. I learned how to listen to that kind of talk long ago. I moved like there was a meeting scheduled and I was late. Every step had a purpose. The cellblock lights were strip-bright and cruel. I checked the cameras with a glance, traced their feeds. Two were looped. Someone wanted this to look like a riot. A radio crackled down the hall. Voices overlapped. "Command, this is Sector Three—there's movement—" "Ignore Sector Three," came a voice flat and practiced. "Proceed according to plan