The guard stepped away as smoothly as he'd arrived, straightening his uniform. Van reappeared in the doorway. "Think about my offer," he said pleasantly. "Things tend to get uncomfortable for people who refuse my hospitality."
As if to emphasize his point, Immani's cell phone lit up with messages the moment they returned her personal items for logging. Mina: "Urgent. They're raiding the studio. Armed deputies, no warrant."
"Claiming evidence-tampering investigation. Hard drives being seized." A message from Preach's sister followed. "They arrested Eli for interfering with an investigation."
"Shop's padlocked. Need help." Then her attorney: "Court calendar suddenly shifted. Judge Kitage unavailable indefinitely."
"Working on options." Most concerning was an automated alert from her dead-man-drop server. Someone had accessed it, trying to scrub the uploads. The footage was compromised.
Immani sat back on the mattress, her face betraying nothing as she processed the coordinated assault on her support system. They were isolating her, cutting off every avenue of resistance. But in doing so, they'd revealed something crucial. She recalled each visit from Van over the past hours.
Every time he appeared, the same sequence played out. Lights down. Cameras off. Three minutes of darkness.
Not two minutes. Not four. Exactly three. A pattern born of arrogance and routine.
As predictable as sunrise. The guard passed her cell again, smirking. Immani remained still, her breathing steady. She wasn't counting the hours until morning.
She was counting the minutes between camera cycles, mapping the rhythms of a system that thought itself invincible. Through her window, she could see the wall-mounted clock ticking away seconds under the harsh fluorescent lights. She watched its hands move with the same patience she'd once used to study patrol patterns in far more dangerous places. Every prison had its schedule.
Every schedule had its gaps. The lights flickered again as Van made another pass through the corridor, his boots clicking against the floor in measured steps. Right on cue, the cameras went dark. Three minutes of invisible power.
Three minutes of absolute authority. Three minutes of perfect, predictable darkness. The holding cell's morning light filtered through a narrow window, casting sharp shadows across the concrete floor. Immani sat upright on her bunk, one hand pressed deliberately against her side.
When the breakfast guard passed, she caught his attention with a controlled wave. "I need medical attention," she said, her voice steady and professional. "I'm experiencing chest tightness and numbness in my left arm." The guard paused, frowning.
"You seemed fine last night." "I'm documenting symptoms as they develop," Immani replied, using the precise language she knew would trigger protocols. "And requesting this be logged for liability purposes." He studied her for a moment, then reached for his radio.