He came to metal stairs and went up, careful not to make too much noise. He took the tunnel, plunging from greasy yellow light into pitch-black with every third step. He came to a corner and peeked. Across a divide he saw a curved wall of cells, all occupied by prisoners, men and women, in yellow jumpsuits. Almost every single one of them was either sitting or lying on their bunk. They were so quiet in their solitude it was eerie. Omen actually felt sorry for them.

He hurried on.

He found another tunnel, which led to another corridor, which led to a row of open cells.

Except the two cells at the end. Their doors were closed.

Omen bit his lip. Going back would mean passing by all those prisoners again. It would mean risking being seen. There was no way out behind him – but for all he knew there could be an open door just ahead.

He moved forward quietly. The cell on the left was dark, but there was a light on in the cell on the right.

Step by silent step, Omen crept. He saw the bunk. Saw a pair of legs, clad in yellow. One was outstretched. The other bent. Omen craned his neck, saw thick fingers holding a battered paperback.

Omen swayed back, and took a deep breath. Confidence. All he needed was confidence. He was going to stride onwards. If the convict looked up, Omen would nod tersely to him, like he was meant to be here. Like it was all normal. He’d be in view for maybe two seconds, and then gone. He could do this. This could be done.

Omen squared his shoulders, and took his first big step.

“You!” the convict roared, and Omen screamed and his knees went and he stumbled back as the convict leaped to his feet. “Who the hell are you? You’re a kid! What are you doing here?”

Omen straightened, squeezing one hand in another, and he did his best to smile politely. “Hello,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The convict pressed his face against the bars. He was big, with a shaved head, and looked mean. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“It’s, um, it’s my uniform,” Omen told him. “I attend Corrival Academy.”

“What’s that?”

“A school,” said Omen. “In Roarhaven.”

The convict blinked. “You on a – what do they call them? Field trip?”

Omen made himself chuckle. “No, no, sir. To be honest, I’m not really supposed to be here. I should probably just go.”

“Come closer.”

Omen’s mouth went even drier than it already was. “I’m sorry?”

The convict beckoned to him with a huge, hairy hand. “C’mere. Get closer.”

“I … I don’t think that’s wise, sir. I think I’ll stay where I am, if you don’t mind.”