He looks at his hands. They are clean of physical dirt, yet they feel heavy.

The phrase isn't a hope; it’s a threat. It’s a promise to a world that thinks it has finally pinned him down. But a cornered animal doesn't just want freedom—it wants to make sure the ones who built the cage remember why they were afraid of the dark.

The walls aren't made of concrete; they’re made of every lie told to Tasha, every secret kept from Tommy, and every drop of blood spilled on the way to a clean life that was never actually clean. Outside, the city moves without him. It’s a ghost town inhabited by the living, while he sits in a living tomb.

It’s a specific kind of cold—one that doesn't just touch your skin but seeps into the marrow. James St. Patrick is gone. In this cage, there is only Ghost, and even he is flickering like a dying bulb in a hallway that never ends.

Angela’s face is the ghost that haunts the periphery of his vision. The woman who was supposed to be the exit strategy became the warden. It’s a poetic kind of cruelty—to be locked away not for the sins you actually committed, but for the one thing you didn't do. The irony is a bitter pill that refuses to be swallowed. "When I get out," he whispers.

The light in the cell flickers.The suit is gone.The empire is crumbling.But the man? The man is just beginning to remember who he used to be before he tried to be "Saint."