A week passed.
It didn't feel like a week.
It felt like time had been stretched, pulled thin until it barely held together, each day bleeding into the next until there was no clear beginning, no real end—just an endless cycle of noise, tension, and survival.
Luca stopped counting the days by numbers.
He counted them by fights.
By screams.
By who didn't come back.
Mornings blurred into afternoons, afternoons into nights, and nights into broken fragments of sleep filled with flashes of blood and laughter that didn't belong together. He learned quickly that routine in Alcatraz wasn't about structure—it was about repetition. Violence repeated. Power repeated. Fear repeated.
And if you weren't careful…
You repeated your mistakes.
So he watched.
He stayed quiet.
He learned.
He learned who walked alone and who never did. Who got stared at and who got avoided. Who laughed too loud and who never laughed at all. He learned the invisible lines drawn across the yard, across the cafeteria, across the corridors—lines you didn't cross unless you had a death wish or something backing you up.
He watched the fights.
Not like a spectator.
Like a student.
Every move. Every hesitation. Every moment someone chose to attack or chose to hold back. He watched how bets were placed, how money moved without ever being seen, how favors were exchanged in whispers instead of words.
He watched Musa.
Only from a distance.
Always from a distance.
The man didn't move like a normal person. He moved like gravity bent around him. Like space adjusted to make room. Conversations died when he passed. Eyes dropped. Even the guards—those fake enforcers—kept their distance.
And somewhere behind it all…
Pablo.
Luca hadn't seen him yet.
But he felt him.
In the way everything worked too smoothly.
In the way chaos had structure.
In the way no one questioned anything out loud.
A system like that didn't build itself.
It was designed.
Controlled.
Owned.
By the end of the week, Luca understood one thing clearly:
This place wasn't just a prison.
It was a machine.
And everyone inside it was either a cog…
Or something that got crushed.
That's when they called his name.
"Luca Scofield."
The voice echoed through the corridor, sharp and authoritative.
Heads turned.
They always did.
Names mattered here.
Reputation mattered more.
Luca stood slowly.
His heart had already started picking up pace before he even knew why.
"Phone call."
That did it.
His chest tightened.
A phone call.
His first.
For a second, he didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Because that meant one thing.
The outside world still existed.
And more importantly…
Someone out there still cared.
He followed the guard without a word, footsteps echoing down the narrow corridor. The air felt different here—quieter, colder. Less chaos. More control.
They stopped at a small room.
Metal table.
Single chair.
A phone bolted to the surface like it was afraid someone might try to steal it.
The guard gestured. "Five minutes."
Luca nodded.
But inside?
He already knew that wasn't going to be enough.
Not even close.
He sat down.
Picked up the receiver.
His hand hesitated for just a fraction of a second before dialing.
Each number pressed felt heavier than the last.
The line rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times—
"Hello?"
Luca froze.
That voice.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
"Vanessa?"
Silence.
Then—
"Luca?"
Her voice cracked.
"Oh my God—Luca? Is that really you?!"
Something in his chest broke.
Not painfully.
Not violently.
Just… quietly.
Like something that had been holding too much for too long finally gave in.
"Yeah," he said, his voice lower than he expected. "It's me."
A sharp inhale on the other end.
"I've been trying to reach you," she rushed out. "No one would tell me anything—no one! They just kept saying 'restricted access' and 'ongoing process'—what the hell is going on? Where are you?!"
Her words came fast.
Too fast.
Like if she slowed down, everything would collapse.
Luca closed his eyes briefly.
"Alcatraz."
Silence.
Heavy.
Dead.
"What?" she whispered.
"I'm in Alcatraz."
"No… no, that's not possible," she said quickly. "That place—Luca, that's not a normal prison, that's—"
"I know what it is."
His voice came out sharper than he intended.
He softened it immediately.
"I know."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
Controlled.
Trying to be strong.
"Are you… okay?"
Luca almost laughed.
Almost.
"Yeah," he said.
It was a lie.
They both knew it.
But neither of them called it out.
Because some lies weren't meant to be corrected.
They were meant to survive.
"I need money," he said.
Straight to it.
No buildup.
No easing into it.
Because there was no time for that.
Vanessa didn't respond immediately.
And that worried him more than anything.
"Luca…" she started slowly. "I—"
"Don't," he cut in. "Don't say you can't."
"I wasn't going to say that."
He blinked.
Her tone had changed.
Not softer.
Stronger.
"I was going to say… how much?"
Luca leaned forward slightly, gripping the phone tighter.
"Enough to buy a job in here."
"A job?" she repeated.
"Yeah."
"What kind of job costs money in a prison?"
"The kind that keeps you alive."
That shut her up.
For a moment.
"I don't understand," she said finally.
"You don't need to," Luca replied. "You just need to trust me."
Another pause.
Then—
"Okay."
Just like that.
No argument.
No hesitation.
And that hit him harder than anything else.
Because it meant she believed him.
Completely.
Without question.
"Luca…" she said softly. "Dad won't help you."
His jaw tightened.
"I know."
"He won't break the law for anyone. Not even—"
"Not even his son," Luca finished.
The bitterness slipped out.
He didn't stop it.
Didn't try to.
Because it was true.
Leon Scofield.
Head of the Washington Police Department.
Friend to presidents.
A man who built his entire identity on justice.
On order.
On doing what was right.
Even if it meant sacrificing his own blood.
"He thinks you did it," Vanessa said quietly.
Luca didn't respond.
Because what was there to say?
Of course he did.
Everyone did.
That was the problem.
"I don't," she added.
That made him close his eyes.
Tighter this time.
"I don't believe it," she continued. "Not for a second."
"You didn't see—"
"I don't need to."
Her voice cut through his words.
Firm.
Certain.
"I know you."
Luca swallowed hard.
"That night…" he said slowly. "I don't remember everything."
"I know."
"There's gaps."
"I know."
"There's blood, Vanessa."
Silence.
"I remember blood."
Her breathing hitched.
But she didn't pull away.
Didn't retreat.
"Then we fill the gaps," she said.
Simple.
Direct.
Like it was just another problem to solve.
"You're talking about proving I didn't kill someone," Luca said.
"Yeah."
"That's not exactly easy."
"No," she agreed. "But it's not impossible either."
Luca leaned back slightly, staring at the wall now.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
"You always were stubborn," he muttered.
"And you always needed someone to clean up your mess," she shot back.
A small pause.
Then—
"…yeah."
For the first time, a faint smile touched his lips.
It didn't last.
But it was there.
"What do you need?" she asked again.
"Money," he said. "Fast."
"I'll get it."
"How?"
"I'll figure it out."
He hesitated.
"Vanessa—"
"Don't," she said. "Don't tell me not to do something stupid."
"Because you will?"
"Because I already am."
That shut him up.
"I don't have Dad's resources," she continued. "But I have enough. Savings. Contacts. There are ways."
"Illegal ways."
"Probably."
Luca exhaled slowly.
"You shouldn't—"
"I'm not losing you too."
That hit.
Hard.
Because she didn't say it dramatically.
She didn't cry.
She just said it.
Flat.
Real.
And suddenly, this wasn't about him anymore.
It wasn't just his survival.
It was hers too.
"I'll pay you back," he said quietly.
"I don't care about that."
"I do."
"Then stay alive," she replied. "That's how you pay me back."
Silence settled between them again.
But this time…
It wasn't heavy.
It wasn't suffocating.
It was… steady.
Like something holding.
Barely.
But holding.
"Luca?"
"Yeah?"
"Promise me something."
He tightened his grip on the phone.
"Anything."
"Don't give up."
Her voice softened.
Not weak.
Just… human.
"Whatever happened that night… whatever the truth is… we'll find it."
He closed his eyes again.
This time, the darkness didn't feel as heavy.
"I promise."
"Say it properly."
He exhaled.
"I promise I won't give up."
"Good."
A pause.
Then—
"Because I'm not giving up on you either."
Something in his chest burned.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Something else.
Something warmer.
Something dangerous.
Hope.
"Time's up," the guard's voice snapped from the doorway.
Luca's head jerked slightly.
"No—wait—" he started.
"Now."
He swallowed.
"Vanessa—"
"I'll get the money," she said quickly. "Just hold on, okay?"
"Okay."
"Luca?"
"Yeah?"
"…I'm glad you're still alive."
The line clicked.
Dead.
Luca sat there for a second longer.
The receiver still pressed to his ear.
Listening to nothing.
Then slowly…
He lowered it.
Set it back in place.
And just sat there.
Breathing.
Because for the first time since he got here…
He wasn't alone.
Not completely.
Not anymore.
And in a place like this…
That changed everything.