Page 30 of Infamous
The plan is brutal, beautiful, perfect. Old wiring. A staged fire. Auto-locks disengaged. Smoke, chaos, screams. Me slipping out while the world burns behind me.
There’s a nurse - Wanda. She starts tomorrow. I’ll fake sick, meet her, discuss the logistics. She’ll ensure that when the smoke clears, my body is “recovered” - charred, unrecognizable.
The world will mourn Ghost. Or maybe they won’t. Either way, Ghost will be dead.
And what comes after? Surgery. New face. New name. A rebirth. It’s not desperation. It’s precision. And it’s perfect.
I don’t ask if I can trust him. Trust is for men who still believe in saints.
I look at Mason Ironside and see myself reflected back. We’re two predators built from ruin, both tired of the cage. For the firsttime in ten years, I look at these walls and taste the chance of possibility. And I don’t hesitate. Because monsters don’t askwhy.We only askwhen.
After that,we keep our distance.
Two predators cutting through the herd. Never circling the same carcass. Never drawing suspicion.
He walks his path. I walk mine.
The silence between us is worth more than any promise. Because in here, everyone’s watching. Every glance is a weapon. Every word is a noose. So we pretend we’re strangers orbiting the same sun.
The Underboss and the serial killer.
It’s been ten long years, and even in those ten years, the body count rises and I’m slapped with another historical murder.
Ten years, and they still feed on my bones.
They play my trial like theater, my mugshot like pornography. Every new body found, every girl gone missing, my name gets dragged through the mud.
But here’s what they don’t know.
I wasn’t born a monster. I wasmade.
The plan is alive now. Rooted deep.
He gives me resurrection. I give him silence. I don’t speak of it. Don’t even think it too loud. But when the lights go out, I can feel it in my chest - the hum of open air, the promise of a life stolen back from the grave.
Ironside’s bail goes through in days. He’ll walk free. The world will think the story ends with him. They’ll be wrong. Because my story doesn’t end here. It starts when the fire catches. That’s when Ghost dies. And what comes after - the world isn’t ready for.
18
LUCIAN
The first flicker comes like a warning. A shiver in the wires. The lights stutter once, twice, then they die.
There’s five minutes of black. Five minutes where Ford Penitentiary stops breathing. The dark isn’t empty; it’s alive. It hums with every man’s hunger, their rage pressing against the silence like fists on glass.
Then the world erupts.
Sirens scream. Red strobes burst to life, cutting the dark into blood and bone. Metal groans, bolts snap, doors slam open. Men roar like they’ve been starving for this moment. For them, it’s chaos. For me, it’s scripture. The dark baptized me. The fire will crown me.
This isn’t a riot. It’s resurrection.
I move fast, but not frantic. Measured. Silent. A shadow carving through smoke. Around me, the herd stampedes—fists flying, boots thundering. They fight for freedom. I fight for precision.
A guard stumbles into my path. Sweat slicks his face. His eyes widen in recognition as he mouths my name.
Ghost.
He opens his mouth to call it out. I silence him. My hand clamps around his throat, slamming him into the wall. Bone cracks under my grip. His body twitches, kicks once, twice, then stops moving.
