The Prisoned Alpha

Chapter 3

The sterile air of the medical wing was a welcome change from the oppressive atmosphere of the main prison. It smelled of antiseptic and clean linen, a temporary respite from the institutional musk that clung to every other corridor. Sarah, the assistant, walked with a quiet, efficient air, her tired eyes reflecting a decade of life in this gray labyrinth. She showed Olivia her office first, a small, windowless room with a steel desk and a single, flickering fluorescent light. A row of shelves held dusty, decades-old medical texts, and a worn leather chair sat in the corner.

"This is your space," Sarah said, her voice a low, hurried whisper. "It's not much, but it's safe. Just make sure you lock the door every time you leave. Every time."

Olivia nodded, taking it all in. "Thank you, Sarah. Where are the supplies?"

"Follow me," the assistant said, leading her to a closet packed with medical equipment and a filing cabinet full of patient records. "Everything you need is in here. Just try to keep a running inventory. The warden is… particular about that."

As they sorted through the supplies, Sarah’s demeanor softened slightly, and she began to offer a few unofficial words of advice. "Warden Barnes, he's a hard man, but he's fair. As long as you follow the rules. But… some of the inmates, they have their own rules. You have to be careful. They'll tell you anything to get what they want. They'll tell you they're sick, they'll tell you they're having a panic attack, anything to get you to open that door. Don't fall for it."

"Thank you, Sarah," Olivia said, her voice genuine. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Just... stay with me and the guards when you're on your rounds," Sarah continued, her eyes darting nervously toward the hallway. "And don't ever, ever go into a cell alone. I don't care what they tell you. Not even if they're unconscious."

Before Olivia could ask for clarification, the door to the medical wing opened, and Warden Barnes entered, flanked by two burly, armed guards. His presence seemed to suck all the air out of the room, and Sarah immediately stiffened, her quiet, conversational tone vanishing entirely.

"Dr. Kane," Barnes said, his voice a cold command. "I'm going to give you a personal tour of the rounds you'll be making. You're going to see some of the most violent men in the state. Pay attention."

He didn't wait for a response, simply turning on his heel and walking out, expecting her to follow. Olivia glanced at Sarah, who gave her a look of pure, unadulterated fear before nodding for her to go.

The tour with the warden was a chilling experience. He didn't point out the infirmary or the guards' station; he pointed out the danger. He walked her through the long, shadowed corridors, each one a different wing of the prison, and with a wave of his hand, he would gesture to a specific cell.

"That one," he said, his voice flat as he pointed to a cell in the West Wing. "Shot three people in a convenience store over a pack of cigarettes. Likes to pretend he's got migraines. Don't give him anything but a Tylenol."

He moved on, the guards flanking them like silent, stone-faced statues. "This one," he said, pointing to another cell, where a man with a wild, feral look was pacing like a caged animal. "He was a former boxer. Thinks he's still in the ring. Likes to get into fights. Claims he has PTSD, looking for sedatives. You give him an aspirin and nothing more."

The tour was a relentless catalog of human depravity and the calculated cruelty of the prison system. The warden didn't see the men as people; he saw them as problems to be managed, beasts to be contained. He was showing her the rules not in a book, but in the raw, brutal reality of the prison walls.

They passed through the mess hall, where the inmates were now gathered for lunch. The noise was a deafening roar, a thousand angry voices echoing off the concrete walls. As they walked through, the warden's presence silenced the nearest tables, a testament to his authority. But as they got to the far end of the room, Olivia’s eyes were drawn to a man sitting alone at a table in the corner. He was a large, imposing figure with a wild, dark beard and bright blue eyes that were fixed on some point in the distance. He had an aura of quiet power, a stillness that was utterly at odds with the chaos around him.

He was Xander Mahon. Olivia felt an immediate pull toward him, a professional and personal fascination that went beyond the grim details of his file. The warden and the guards didn’t even seem to notice him, their attention focused on a group of men who were arguing loudly by the food line.

The warden then led her to a different section of the prison, a more isolated, quieter wing. "This is the 'special needs' section," he said, the words dripping with a cold sarcasm. "We keep the more… unpredictable cases here. They are heavily medicated, heavily monitored. You will be visiting these cells last." He pointed to a small, isolated section of cells. "They don't mix well with the general population. They are violent and unpredictable. You'll give them their meds and get out."

Olivia felt a chill run down her spine. The air in this wing was colder, heavier, and a strange, primal scent seemed to hang in the air, a scent she couldn’t place. The warden’s words were a warning, a dismissal, and a final, clear message: stay away from these men. But for Olivia, it was a challenge. She was already mentally preparing herself for this part of her rounds, her professional curiosity overpowering the fear.

The warden then turned them around, leading her back to the medical wing. "Your tour is over, Dr. Kane," he said, his voice a final, uncompromising command. "Your job is to manage the patients, not to understand them. You keep them docile, and you will have no problems. Understand?"

"Yes, Warden," Olivia said, her voice firm.

Back in the sterile sanctuary of her office, Olivia closed the door and let out a long, heavy sigh. The weight of the Warden’s rules and the chilling reality of the prison’s inhabitants pressed down on her. She took a moment to compose herself, her mind replaying the warden's grim tour, his every word a dark, chilling warning. But beneath the fear was a growing fire of professional defiance. She was not a tool to manage inmates; she was a doctor, and she was here to treat them.

She sat down at her steel desk and pulled out the patient files from a worn metal drawer. The files were thick and filled with a grim history of assault, violence, and desperation. She began to sort through them, a focused efficiency taking over. She made notes on each inmate, detailing their prescribed medications, their dosages, and the times they were to be administered. It was a monotonous task, but she knew it was necessary. She needed to understand the baseline, the "normal" of this abnormal place.

She went through the list, checking off names and medications—Antipsychotics for paranoid schizophrenics, antidepressants for the deeply depressed, pain medications for those who had been in too many fights. The prescriptions were all high-strength, a testament to the brutal reality of the prison's ecosystem, but they were all standard, all well within the expected parameters of her professional training.

And then she came to Xander Mahon's file.

The file itself was thin, with a faded mugshot of a man whose eyes seemed to burn with a quiet intensity. The official diagnosis was "Bipolar and Schizophrenia with multiple personalities." But below the diagnosis, where the medication and treatment plan should have been detailed, there was a single, typed word: CLASSIFIED.

Olivia’s brow furrowed in confusion. In all her years of medical training and her work with highly sensitive patient information, she had never seen a medication classified in this manner. It was unheard of. She leaned closer, her eyes scanning the rest of the file for any other clues. There were notes from the warden, brief and to the point, and a few cryptic comments from the prison's previous doctors. The only piece of solid information she had was his dosage: a high-level injection administered once a week.

Her mind, honed by years of advanced psychology and criminology, immediately began to connect the dots. A patient with a diagnosis of bipolar and schizophrenia would be on a daily regimen of mood stabilizers and antipsychotics, a consistent and long-term treatment plan. An injection once a week for a life sentence was not a standard protocol. It was a control mechanism. The dose was also described as "incredibly high," which would be a lethal amount of many common psychiatric medications.

She reread the file again, her professional curiosity now a full-blown obsession. The warden had been extremely clear in his instructions: Xander Mahon's weekly "shot" was a top priority, above all else, no matter what. The warden had even gone so far as to tell her it was the only time she was to interact with him.

"This doesn't make any sense," she muttered to herself, her mind racing. Bipolar disorder didn't require a top-priority, high-dosage, weekly injection. Schizophrenia didn't need this level of secrecy. The two diagnoses, while severe, were managed with well-known medications that were neither classified nor administered in this way.

This was not a treatment plan. This was something else. This was a form of chemical containment. She felt a profound sense of unease, a cold fear that went beyond the normal apprehension of working in a prison. The warden had told her that the inmates were "different," that they had a "savage cunning." But what if he wasn't talking about them in a metaphorical sense? What if he was hiding something far more sinister? The thought was absurd, but it was the only thing that made sense.

Before she could delve any deeper into the spiraling questions in her mind, a light, timid knock sounded on her door. It was Sarah, her face already a mask of nervous urgency.

"Dr. Kane," Sarah said, her voice a low whisper. "It's time to start your rounds."

Olivia’s head snapped up, the classified file a tangible weight in her hands. She had been given her first patient, her first case, and it was a man shrouded in a mystery that went far beyond the prison walls. She had a feeling that her compassion had just found its first real challenge, and her job, a job she had taken to help people, was about to become a whole lot more dangerous.