The library was long and low, with shelves running in rows from the entrance wall to the far end, the sort of shelves that gained books by being left alone rather than by any act of curation.

Dog-eared paperback fiction, outdated almanacs, a line of Bible editions all in identical condition, periodicals stacked neatly until, after the first several months of whatever year had been assigned to the effort, even neatness seemed to lose conviction.

The reading table sat in the center, and six metal stools were fixed to the floor.

The overhead strip lighting was the flat white, with the talent for making every color in the room look as though it had already given up.

One guard stood near the door, stationary at the one point in the room that gave him a full line of sight across every row and the table at once.

There was no window in his coverage, no patrol cycle to exploit.

He noted it and went to the shelves.

There were four other inmates in the room.

He catalogued them as he moved.

One at the table with a paperback he was not reading, two in the fiction rows performing the standing-around equivalent of browsing, one near the periodicals at the far end with his back to the room in a posture that said he knew exactly where everyone else was.

Proxy passed the fiction shelves and the reference section and found what he had come for at the back wall, behind the periodical racks.

A wooden case the color of old varnish, its glass front latched rather than locked, had a row of bound volumes with faded labels on their spines.

Old records and news, the kind that accumulated in a place with a long history because nobody ever quite decided what deserved to be kept and what deserved to be throw to the trash. Annual reports, inspection records, a news folder of clippings about the facility’s construction that some warden from several decades ago had made for reasons that had since become historical fiction.

He opened the latch and took the press folder.

The clippings were in order, which was immediately useful.

Construction had begun in the late nineteenth century. The main cell blocks had gone up over several years, and the timeline was recorded in the local newspaper coverage clipped and pasted to backing sheets with patience that did not belong to modern administration, which at least was honest about its own impatience.

He found it on the seventh sheet.

A small article, three columns, a construction delay. The sub-basement level, designed as a service and utilities corridor beneath the main cell block, had been placed under inspection after the foundation crew finished work on the eastern section.

The article noted that the inspection had been resolved, work had resumed, and the section had passed final certification.

What it did not note, though the inspector’s addendum on the backing sheet did note it, in the careful neutral language of someone recording a concern they were also signing off on, was that the basement wall was subject to maintenance review at fifteen-year intervals.

There was no subsequent record of any maintenance review at any interval.

He closed the folder and put it back in the case.

The sub-basement level existed somewhere below this block. The wall of it had been built to a conditional standard, contingent on maintenance that had apparently never been documented as taking place.

Whether that section connected to anything beyond the facility’s perimeter, whether the wall current state mattered for anything useful, he did not know yet. What he knew was that there was a weaker foundation, and it was below, and that was more than he had walked in with.

He latched the case and turned from the back wall.

The ex-boxer was standing at the end of the row.

He was large in the way some bodies are large without needing augmentation to advertise the fact, the sort of physical presence that arrived before the rest of the person did.

His knuckles had the slightly raised profile of chrome reinforcement beneath the skin, the hardware offline but still there, altering the shape of the hand. He was looking at Proxy the way someone looks at a problem after deciding he already knows how it ends.

"Found you, choom," he said.

His voice was at ease, casual even.

"Been some time since the race, mm. Guess neither of us died yet."

"Given that you’re here."

The ex-boxer’s fingers flexed once. "Actin’ tough, huh. I wonder how strong you really are without that chick to protect you."

He kept his position at the end of the row without moving closer, the guard near the door still within his field of awareness.

"The floor is flat now. No toys. Nothing between you and whatever is in front of you."

"Congratulations, you’re capable of basic thinking." Proxy said.

"Fuck you. Before this little game ends, I’ll make sure to crush your skulls with my hands."

The guard near the door moved closer to them.

Neither had looked at him directly since the ex-boxer arrived, which was probably wise and probably irritating in equal measure.

"I appreciate you telling me in advance. That’s twice now. Quite honorable, even."

The ex-boxer’s lips moved in a way that was not quite a smile.

"Did you became a clown now," he said.

"Oh, no. I just speak the truth. Only in this case, the truth’s that you are an idiot."

The ex-boxer shifted his weight once, just enough to make the threat feel more present.

"An idiot."

He looked at Proxy with the anger of someone deciding whether to be more irritated by the word or by the delivery. "I’m telling you I’m going to finish you in here, choom. And your coward ass is trying to make conversation."

Proxy looked back at him from the end of the row. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Nothing in his expression suggested he was hiding fear or performing calm. He was simply not afraid, and the ex-boxer, who had enough experience in his particular line of work to recognize the real thing when he saw it, seemed to find that considerably more irritating than any imitation would have been.

"What would you prefer I say?" Proxy said.

The ex-boxer opened his mouth.