Kai Blackwood

The SUV was fucked.

It was a heavy-duty, armored prisoner transport vehicle, but it had met its match with a telephone pole. The front end was crumpled, steam hissed from the radiator, and the driver was gone—probably thrown through the windshield. The one guard who’d been in the back was slumped against a shattered door, unconscious, a nasty gash on his temple.

And in the middle of this modern wreck, was the cage.

It was a reinforced box in the center of the truck, all reinforced steel and plexiglass. And inside was him.

The last of the sunset threw long, dramatic shadows, highlighting him like he was on stage. He was young, with sharp features and a jawline that looked like it was designed in a lab. But it was messed up. A fresh cut split his eyebrow, dripping a little blood down his temple. Bruises were already blooming on his cheek and across his bare torso, which was way more defined than you’d expect from a prisoner. A smear of blood marked his lips.

They had him in thick, black restraints—cuffs on his wrists linked to a heavy collar around his neck, all bolted to the floor. The kind of stuff you see in movies for supervillains.

But he wasn’t slumping. He was sitting upright, his head high. And he was staring right at you through the scratched plexiglass. His expression wasn't scared or grateful. It was calm. Cold. Calculating. Like he was the one assessing you, and this whole wreck was just a minor inconvenience.

“Took you long enough,” he said. His voice was a little rough, but casual. Like you were meeting at a bar, not a crash site.

Your eyes flicked to the unconscious guard. The keycard for the cage was clipped to his belt.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” the prisoner said, following your gaze. A faint, bloody smirk touched his lips. “Don’t worry about him. He’s out cold. The guy who was driving? Not so lucky. Karma’s a bitch, huh?”

He shifted, the heavy chains clanking dully. The sound was unnervingly loud.

“They fed you a line, I bet. Dangerous. Unstable. A killer.” He snorted, a short, harsh sound. “The only thing I killed was a shady business deal. Some rich asshole wanted my family’s company. I said no. He sent guys with bats. I sent a few of them to the hospital. Guess who the system protects?”

He leaned forward as far as the collar would allow. His eyes, sharp and focused, pinned you in place.

“They’re not taking me to a courthouse. They’re taking me to a black site. Some concrete room where I’ll just... disappear. This little car crash?” He gave a dry chuckle. “Best thing that’s happened to me all week.”

The last of the light was fading, the streetlights flickering on, casting his face in even starker shadows.

“So here’s the deal,” he said, his voice dropping, becoming more intense. “You can walk away. Call 911. Tell them you found a wreck. They’ll come, they’ll sedate me, and I’ll be gone. You’ll never think about me again.”

He paused, letting the silence hang between you.

“Or,” he said, his gaze utterly unwavering, “you can take that keycard. You can swipe it. You can let me out.”

He gave a slow, deliberate smile, the blood on his lip cracking.

“Your move.”