Chapter 5: Shadows of Survival

Miles woke to the faint sound of sobbing, his eyelids heavy and his body throbbing with pain. It took him a moment to register the source of the sound, a child, crying softly somewhere nearby. The ache in his side flared as he shifted, his fingers brushing against the crude bandages hastily wrapped around his wound.

The events of the previous day flooded back: the fight, the stab, and the cold, metallic van. His hands instinctively went to his face, fumbling with the cloth bag that still covered his head. With some effort, he pulled it off, the dim light of the cell stinging his eyes.

Blinking rapidly, he scanned the room. It was small, damp, and suffocating, the only illumination coming from a flickering bulb above. In the corner, huddled on the floor, was a young boy, no older than seven. The child's knees were pulled to his chest, his tiny frame trembling as he sobbed into his arms.

Miles swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke gently. "Hey... kid."

The boy flinched but didn't look up. Miles tried again, softening his voice further. "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."

The child's sobs quieted slightly, and he peeked up, his tear-streaked face pale and wide-eyed. "W-where's my mom?"

Miles' heart twisted. He didn't have an answer. "What's your name?"

"E-Eli." the boy stammered.

"Alright, Eli." Miles said, shifting carefully to avoid aggravating his injury. "I'm Miles. We're gonna figure this out, okay? But first, I need you to tell me what happened. How did you get here?"

Eli hesitated, his small hands gripping his knees tightly. "I... I was with my mom at the park. A man came up and said he needed help finding his dog. He said it was just by the car, but... but then he grabbed me." His voice cracked, and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks.

Miles clenched his fists, anger simmering under his calm exterior. "I'm sorry, Eli. I'm so sorry."

The boy sniffled. "What about you? How did you get here?"

Miles leaned back against the damp wall, wincing as his wound throbbed. "Wrong place, wrong time."

He let the silence hang for a moment before forcing himself to focus. His eyes roamed the cell, searching for anything that could help them escape. The walls were solid concrete, the door reinforced steel with a small opening near the bottom. A faint draft hinted at ventilation somewhere above.

"We'll get out of here," Miles said firmly, more for himself than for Eli.

"How?" the boy whispered, his voice shaky.

Miles gave him a small, reassuring smile. "Just give me some time."

....

Hours passed before the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. A thug appeared at the cell door, sliding a tray of food through the small opening before walking away without a word.

Miles shifted, his bound hands moving toward the tray. The edge of the steel door was jagged, corroded with rust. He maneuvered himself awkwardly, pressing the ropes against the sharp edge. The coarse material frayed slowly, his wrists burning from the effort.

Finally, the ties snapped. Miles exhaled in relief, rubbing his sore wrists before turning to Eli. "Hold still, kid." he said gently, untying the boy's hands.

"Are you okay?" Eli asked, his wide eyes filled with worry.

"I'm fine." Miles lied, his side still burning. "Let's get you fed."

He slid the tray closer, breaking the meager bread into smaller pieces and offering them to Eli. The boy ate quickly, his hunger evident, while Miles forced down a few bites to keep his strength.

....

The sky above Ryker's Island was a dull gray, the sun hidden behind thick clouds. The yard buzzed with activity as inmates milled about in small groups, their movements cautious but purposeful. Guards stood watch on the perimeter, their rifles slung across their chests, their eyes scanning for trouble.

Tony Stark stepped into the open air, his hands tucked casually into his jumpsuit pockets. To the untrained eye, he looked detached, almost disinterested. But Tony's mind was working overtime, cataloging every detail of his surroundings.

'Fifteen guards visible. Four in the towers, eleven on the ground. Rifles standard-issue, semi-automatic. Tasers holstered at the hip.'

His gaze shifted to the inmates. Most of them avoided him, their focus on their own cliques. A few threw hostile glances his way, their resentment toward the once-wealthy genius evident.

Tony smirked faintly. 'Not exactly a welcoming committee.'

He wandered toward the far edge of the yard, where a group of inmates played a makeshift game of basketball. The hoop was a dented metal ring bolted to the wall, the ball scuffed and deflated in places.

'Tools. Materials. Everything here can be repurposed.'

As he walked, he noted the layout of the yard, the placement of the cameras, the distance to the gates, the blind spots where shadows pooled. His mind mapped it all, piecing together the puzzle.

A scrawny inmate bumped into him, muttering a hurried apology before scurrying away. Tony barely acknowledged him, his focus elsewhere.

'Three exits. Two are monitored. The third... a service gate? Possible weak point.'

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp sound of a whistle. A guard barked an order, and the inmates began to gather near the central area. Lunch break was over.

Tony followed the crowd, his expression unreadable. As he stepped back into the corridor leading to his cell, his mind churned with possibilities.

'A key isn't enough. I need tools. A distraction. A window of opportunity.'

He passed by a storage room, the door slightly ajar. Inside, he glimpsed cleaning supplies, tools, and, most importantly, a pair of bolt cutters.

Tony filed the information away, his lips twitching into a faint smile. 'One step closer.'

Back in his cell, he sat on the edge of his cot, his fingers drumming against his knee. The pieces of his plan were falling into place, but the execution would require precision.

"Time to get creative." he muttered, his mind already racing ahead.

....

The stillness of the prison at night was deceptive. The faint hum of machinery mixed with the distant snores of sleeping inmates, while the occasional shuffle of boots marked the guards' patrols. In the dim light of his cell, Tony Stark sat on his cot, his eyes fixed on the tiny crack under the door. Shadows of passing guards flickered now and then, their timing precise.

He reached under the mattress, fingers brushing the cold, jagged edge of the stolen key. His pulse quickened, but his face remained calm.

'Step one: find a way to escape.' he thought.

Tony moved silently, easing himself onto the floor. The metallic clink of the key sliding into the lock felt deafening in the quiet. He turned it slowly, careful to minimize noise, and the lock clicked softly.

The door creaked slightly as it opened, and Tony froze, listening. Nothing stirred. He slipped into the corridor, easing the door shut behind him.

The prison's layout was a mental map in his mind now, memorized during hours of observation. The cameras, fixed in their positions, swept predictable arcs across the hallways. Tony hugged the walls, timing his movements between the blind spots.

'Two cameras down, one to go. If I'm off by even a second, it's over.' he reminded himself.

The faint scuff of his bare feet against the concrete was the only sound as he darted forward, his movements quick but controlled. At one junction, he flattened himself against the wall, his sharp eyes catching the beam of a flashlight moving down the corridor.

"Third patrol, west wing. Still on schedule." Tony muttered under his breath, waiting until the light faded.

He moved again, reaching the storage room he'd marked earlier. The door was unlocked, and he slipped inside, his heart pounding.

....

The room smelled of bleach and damp metal, the faint whir of a ventilation fan masking his soft movements. Tony scanned the shelves quickly, pulling down what he needed: a screwdriver, a roll of duct tape, and the bolt cutters he'd seen earlier.

He crouched by a toolbox, searching through its contents. A few loose screws, some wire, and a wrench joined his collection. He packed everything into a tattered cloth sack he'd found on a lower shelf.

'Not perfect, but it'll do.' he thought.

As he stood, the faint crackle of a radio outside the door made him freeze.

"Inspection coming up. Be ready," a guard's voice barked.

Tony's heart raced. He slung the sack over his shoulder and stepped back into the hallway, careful to keep his footsteps silent. The return trip to his cell felt longer, every shadow and sound amplified in his mind.

....

Back in his cell, Tony eased the door shut and locked it, stowing the key and the sack of tools under the cot. He straightened, wiping sweat from his brow just as the sound of boots approached.

The guard's flashlight swept through the bars, pausing briefly on Tony, who sat on the edge of his cot, his posture relaxed.

"Still breathing, Stark?" the guard asked gruffly.

Tony smirked faintly, leaning back against the wall. "I'd offer you a drink, but the service here's terrible."

The guard grunted, moving on to the next cell. Tony waited until the footsteps faded before lying back, his mind buzzing with calculations and contingencies.

'Step one: complete. Now for the hard part.'

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