And within seconds, he was shot.
No warnings. No words. Just a sharp echo of a suppressed bullet, and a slumped body dragged away as if nothing had happened.
Ray's breath caught. His palms slick with sweat. He ducked his head, trying to keep his expression neutral, his heart thudding against his ribs like it wanted to escape.
He turned, walking fast, not running—never running—and slipped into a nearby bathroom.
Once inside, he locked the door, his back pressed to the cool tile as he forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Again.
He scanned the room. There—hanging on a hook in the corner, a warden's uniform. Still fresh. Still warm.
But he wasn't alone.
One of the stalls was closed. Someone was inside.
Ray didn't have time.
Silently, he crept forward. His fingers slid over the uniform—dark gray, almost sterile, with stiff edges and a nameplate that read Warden 39-B. Without hesitation, he peeled off his jacket and slid into the disguise.
