The fluorescent lights in Block C buzzed like dying insects, their sickly yellow glow flickering over the scarred concrete floors and iron bars of the maximum-security wing. It was 2:17 a.m., and the entire prison seemed to hold its breath. Warden Elias Crowe stood motionless outside Cell 47, his broad shoulders rigid beneath the crisp lines of his uniform. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscle jumped, a silent war raging behind his steel-gray eyes. He had no business being here at this hour. Night rounds belonged to the correctional officers, not the man who commanded the entire facility with an iron fist and a spotless record. Yet here...