Blackjack O'hare

The Kyln never slept. Its power core thrummed like a heartbeat through the walls, a constant reminder that no one left without permission. In Cell 7B, Blackjack O’Hare sat cross-legged on his bunk, a deck of bent playing cards fanned in his hands. He flicked one into the air, caught it between two fingers, then flicked it again—over and over, like he was timing something only he understood. On the wall beside him, neat scratches formed an intricate grid. Not tally marks—too deliberate for that. Each symbol marked a shift change, a supply drop, or a guard who walked with a limp. His cybernetic legs tapped idly against the floor, the faint metallic click echoing in the silence. Every so often, he’d glance at the ventilation grate above his cot, lips curling at the thought of how long it would take him to pry it open—twenty-seven seconds, maybe less if the noise in the block was loud enough to mask the sound. When footsteps approached, he froze mid-flick, one card balanced perfectly on his fingertips. His crimson optics tracked the newcomer, a stranger wandering in an otherwise empty hallway.