Blackridge Prison.
It stood like a scar on the edge of the North African wilderness—an imposing fortress carved into the belly of a jagged mountain range, where icy winds howled through endless peaks and snow buried everything but the towering black walls. Few maps marked its exact location, and few people dared to speak its name.
Blackridge was no ordinary penitentiary. It was a containment facility designed for one purpose: to hold the irredeemable.
Surrounded by a triple-ring perimeter, the outermost wall was laced with electrified titanium fencing, armed drones circling silently overhead in programmed rotations. The second wall was a fifty-foot reinforced alloy barrier that could withstand tank fire. Embedded within its structure were motion sensors, heat detectors, and electromagnetic pulse fields designed to neutralize any digital escape attempts. The third and innermost wall—dark, seamless, and cold to the touch—was rumored to have been developed using off-the-record military-grade tech. No one had ever breached it. No one ever would.
Above ground, only a sliver of the prison could be seen—steel towers, scanning lights, and gun turrets mounted with precision weaponry. But the true depth of Blackridge lay below.
Dozens of levels spiraled downward into the earth, each harsher than the last. The lower the level, the more dangerous the inmates. Some hadn't seen sunlight in years, and others weren't even listed on official records.
Guards here didn't patrol—they monitored. From armored control rooms embedded with retinal scanners and biometric security, they observed every corridor, every cell, and every heartbeat. AI-assisted surveillance systems tracked inmates' micro-movements and could deploy gas, electric fields, or zero-oxygen lockdowns at the press of a button. Riot suppression drones floated silently through the halls, armed with non-lethal but highly effective means of neutralization.
There were no windows. No weaknesses. No hope.
And among its population were the worst of the worst—war criminals, international assassins, traitors, cyber-terrorists, and genetically enhanced anomalies deemed too dangerous to be kept in regular prisons. They came from every corner of the continent, were swallowed by Blackridge, and were never seen again.
To those who believed in ghosts, Blackridge was the afterlife for the living.
To those on the outside, it was a myth wrapped in steel.
To those inside... it was the end.
PRESENT DAY...
The room was dim and humming, quietly alive with the low frequency of active machines. Silver arms moved fluidly above Jayden, scanning and scanning again. A thin band circled his forehead, pulsing a soft blue as it read the electrical signals flickering across his mind. Dozens of screens around the lab lit up in strange patterns, the most vibrant among them pulsing erratically.
Outside the glass walls of the chamber, the doctor watched intently.
The hippocampus—the part of the brain responsible for memorizing—was glowing with chaotic bursts of neural activity. It wasn't just active… It was surging. Reacting. Almost as if it were resisting the scan itself.
Jayden sat on the observation bed, his eyes slightly narrowed, arms crossed over his chest. He had been cooperative, mostly silent, but visibly unsettled.
Later, in the low-lit med suite, the doctor—tall, calm, with white streaks in her hair—returned with a tablet clutched to her chest. She looked at him quietly for a moment before taking a seat.
"You've been stable for the most part," she began. "No changes in blood pressure, motor function, or reflexes. But... something showed up in your latest scan. Something different."
Jayden sat up slightly. "Different how?"
The doctor looked at the tablet, then back at him. "Have you experienced any unusual sensations lately? Headaches? Pressure behind the eyes? A feeling like you're remembering things that never happened?"
Jayden shook his head slowly. "No. Just... dreams. Not sure what they mean."
Her lips tightened. She exhaled. "Your hippocampus is behaving abnormally. The part of the brain tied to memory—how it's stored, recalled, and possibly even altered. It's overactive. Not in a dangerous way. But not in a normal one, either."
Jayden looked at her, eyebrows furrowed. "What does that mean?"
She turned the tablet to him, revealing waves and data he couldn't understand.
"We believe it's connected to the implant—the microchip we found during surgery," she said, tapping on one of the waveforms. "It's material, it's coding... nothing matches current technology. We tried to remove it. We failed. It responded violently when tampered with. Whatever it's made of—it's fused with your neural tissue. It's part of you now."
Jayden leaned back, processing. His mouth opened, but no words came.
"We don't know what it's for," she continued. "But your brain... is responding to it. Like it's waking something up."
The silence that followed was heavy. Even the machines seemed to quiet down.
The doctor stood. "We're bringing in someone with deeper expertise. Someone who might be able to tell us what this means."
She didn't say more. She didn't need to.
Jayden was left alone in that cold room, staring into the darkened glass, where his reflection looked back at him—uncertain, incomplete... and somehow not alone...