The Shadow of Redmore

The pale light of the fluorescent tube flickered above the admissions corridor. A metallic odor of disinfectant and rancid sweat hung in the air. Doors slammed, the clanking of chains echoed like a death knell.
A man advanced slowly, handcuffed, head held high. His steps betrayed neither fear nor arrogance.

His name was Darren Thorne. But in other lives, on other nights, he was known by another name: the Ghost.

The guard, a hulking figure with weary eyes, stared at him.

“First time here?” Thorne offered a barely perceptible smile.

“They say silence keeps walls standing.”

“Here,” the guard replied, “silence isn’t peace. It’s just fear sleeping.”

A metal door slammed shut behind him. Redmore swallowed another man.

Redmore’s yard was a stage for stares. The inmates watched the newcomer, sizing up his gait, his breathing. Some murmured, others sneered. At the far end of the yard, leaning against a wall tagged with snakes and crosses, stood Razer. A mountain of tattooed muscle, self-proclaimed leader of C Block. Around him, his pack: Spider, Twitch, and two other nameless shadows.

“Check out this fresh fish,” Spider growled.

“Too calm for my liking,” Twitch added. “Those guys are always the worst.” Razer cracked his knuckles, a predatory smile on his lips.

“We’ll see if he bleeds like the others.”

The next day, in the cafeteria, the trap snapped shut. Thorne waited in line, tray in hand. The voices behind him drew closer.

“Hey, new guy,” Razer called out, “what’s your name?” “— Thorne.”

“Just Thorne? No ‘sir’? No ‘boss’?”

Silence.
Spider shoved him from behind. The tray fell, the mashed potatoes splattering on the floor.

“Answer when we talk to you, ghost!”

Thorne turned slowly. His gaze met Spider’s. Dark eyes, calm, without anger, but utterly cold.

“Leave me alone,” he murmured.
Razer burst out laughing.

“Oh, I like that. The fish is finally talking. See you later, Thorne. Very soon.”

The following days were a succession of small humiliations: torn bedding, stolen belongings, whispered insults. Thorne took it all in stride. The others saw a resigned man. In reality, he was observing, taking it all in, waiting.

In the grimy reflection of his cell’s mirror, he sometimes spoke to himself in a low voice.

“You wanted peace, Darren. Not war. But war always comes for you.”

At night, the prison vibrated to the rhythm of distant shouts, swinging doors, and the clinking of keys. Sleep never came. Under the pale light, Thorne thought back to the faces of those he had killed. Nameless faces, restless faces.

He had been a hitman, a craftsman of death. Then he had disappeared. Until one contract too many landed him behind bars.

One evening, in the showers, the smell of cheap soap mingled with the scent of danger. The footsteps of several men echoed on the damp tiles. Razer and his gang.

“You’ve been given enough chances, Thorne,” Razer said. “Here, you submit, or you die.” Thorne looked up. “And what do you choose?” Razer frowned.

“I choose to crush you.”

The first blow came without warning. A fist, then another. Spider tried to grab him from behind, but Thorne moved with disconcerting speed. He dodged, seized the arm, and pivoted. The joint cracked. A cry ripped through the steam.
Razer roared and struck. Thorne ducked, sending a knee into his ribs and an elbow to his throat. It all happened in a matter of seconds.

When the silence returned, four men lay gasping for air on the floor. Razer, on his knees, was spitting up blood. Thorne approached, his gaze fixed.

“I warned you. Leave me alone.” He turned on his heel and left the shower, leaving behind the sounds of groans and running water.

The next day, all of Redmore was talking about the incident.

“He brought Razer to his knees, man!” “No way. Razer, beaten?”

“That guy moved like a soldier.”

Rumors started flying.
Some said Thorne had been in the Special Forces.
Others swore he’d worked for the government, eliminating targets in the shadows.
No one knew the truth. And Thorne wasn’t saying anything.

Meanwhile, Razer, humiliated, plotted his revenge. His pride bled more than his wounds.

In his cell, he punched the wall until his own blood flowed.

“Nobody makes a fool of me, nobody!”

Twitch, the most excitable of the group, couldn’t sleep. Fear gnawed at his insides.

He’d found an old phone hidden under the laundry room floorboards. That night, he decided to search it.

His fingers trembling, he searched the dark web, entered a few words: Darren Thorne + assassin.
The results appeared, terrifying. Newspaper articles, confidential files, blurred faces.

“Darren Thorne,

Ias Shadow. Responsible for over fifty executions. Former shadow operative for the British black network.

Twitch paled. His hands grew clammy. He ran to Razer’s cell.

“Razer… you’re not going to believe this. This guy… he’s not just strong. He’s a killer. A real one.”

“Stop talking nonsense.”

“I’ve seen his file. He’s killed ministers, gang leaders, corrupt cops. He’s a fucking ghost!”

Razer remained silent for a moment. His gaze flickered.

“Then we have to take him down before he takes us down.”

The sun barely filtered through the bars of the exercise yard.
Razer’s men formed a circle, cobbled-together shivs in their hands. The air crackled with electricity. Thorne, alone, walked slowly, a book under his arm.

“It’s over, Thorne,” Razer said.

“Nothing’s ever over,” he replied.

“You’re going to die here, you and your calm demeanor.” Shit.

Silence. Then everything exploded.
Blows rained down. Blades, chains, screams.

But Thorne moved like a shadow. Every gesture precise, relentless. He dodged, struck, shattered. Bodies fell around him like puppets.
Twitch screamed, took a blow to the stomach, and collapsed.

Razer, panting, took a step forward, shiv raised.

“Die, you bastard!” Thorne deflected the attack, pivoted, and struck a sharp blow to the throat.
Razer staggered, gasping for air, his eyes wide.

He fell to his knees, choking, then collapsed in the dust.

Total silence. Even the wind stopped.

The sirens wailed. The guards rushed in, batons raised.
Thorne raised his hands without resistance. His face remained Imperturbable.

“What did you do, Thorne?!” an officer yelled.

“What I had to do,” he murmured.

They handcuffed him. The other inmates remained silent, petrified.

Some bowed their heads in respect. Others averted their eyes, unable to bear what they had just witnessed.

As they led him away, Darren Thorne caught his reflection in the bulletproof glass of the corridor.
What he saw didn’t surprise him: a tired, worn-out man, both executioner and victim.

A ghost in a world of walls.

 

In the silence of the disciplinary wing, Thorne sat on the concrete bed.
He didn’t miss the world outside. There, there were only other prisons, larger, more invisible.

A voice echoed in his memory—that of an old friend, perhaps a Long-dead accomplice:

“A man like you, Darren, never grows old. He disappears.”

[Referring to a man who died long ago] He closed his eyes. The sounds from the corridor faded away.

He thought of Razer, of his look before the end—not of hatred, but of fear.

And in that fear, he found no pleasure. Only an immense emptiness.

The following morning, the guards found Thorne sitting with his eyes open, staring blankly out the window.
He was still breathing.

And yet, it was as if his soul had already departed.

In the days that followed, Thorne’s name became a whisper.
The inmates spoke of him as a shadow, a spirit of vengeance that punished tyrants.
Some said he had vanished into D Block, others that he now worked for the guards, erasing the problems they couldn’t solve.

No one ever knew the truth.

But in the yard, the older guards, when they saw a newcomer look up too high, would simply murmur:

“Watch it, kid.” Within these walls, there is a ghost. And his name is Darren Thorne.