Lily.

He traced the name over the cheap orange sheets.

Lila.

Violent blue eyes bored into fabric. They outlined two syllables, four letters.

Leia.

His index finger slipped over the knitting. It slid slowly, forming a straight line. His lips curled down in a frown. His eyes flashed. His hand lurched to the side, drawing the base of his imaginary L.

Lori.

He wouldn't think it.

Lola.

He wouldn't write it.

Liza.

He wouldn't say it. Not the name that really mattered. He wouldn't trace each letter with a gentle caress. L…I…S…A.

LISA exploded in his mind before he could shut it out. He lurched over, rolling off his side to his back and slamming his head hard enough to shake the bunk. His jaw slipped up. Echoes of the sound bounced in his skull. He took a breath, a long one, letting the oxygen seep into him.

That name, the one that wouldn't leave him, the one that followed him here. He wouldn't let it bother him anymore, not another moment. It didn't bother him anymore, he insisted.

First there was rage. Unadulterated rage powered him through the first weeks in prison, steaming, stewing. Then the melancholy consumed him, memories, moments he had never shared with her but watched, the hour he spent "sweeping her off her feet," or trying, and the following night and morning that had simultaneously destroyed his career, reputation, and chance at escaping it all. Now not only was he a failed "manager," but she had foiled his plans of escaping his occupation, of that mission as his final endeavor, of freedom at all in the future. But he missed her.

Then calm. Last of all came calm. This realization, this moment, when he knew his life was his own, and he would do with it as he pleased, whatever felt necessary, whatever felt good. He was trapped for now, yes, but it wouldn't be for long. There was one thing he knew: he was getting out and rebuilding his skill, stronger than ever. And more importantly, he would forget everything about the woman who threw him off kilter in the first place.

The passion drained away. Stoic certainty took him over. Simple male-driven factual logic. Sly as usual, he continued, here, in the prison, entirely ready.

The bright light blared into his face. Palms folded neatly on the smooth wood, his eyes glanced up at the beam and back forwards to the shadowed silhouette. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't uncomfortable. He had faced his fair share of this before.

"Mr.…" the woman's voice trailed off. "Jackson Rippner, was it?" He could hear the smile dripping off every word. "You certainly baffled us, Mr. John Doe, once we discovered Jackson Rippner died quite a while ago." She paused, leaning over. "By stabbing, I hear. Perfectly ironic, isn't it?" A single hand flicked up and to the side. "But it begs the question. What shall we call you, seeing as our best have yet to identify any solid fact pertaining to our own Mr. Mysterious?"

"Whatever you like, I'd suppose." His words came low, spoken in the back of his throat with minimal effort and maximum chill. His eyes, luminescent blue, seemed to glow in the light, pupils shrinking and shrinking as that deathly blue overwhelmed them.

The voice halted. She raised a finger. "Very well, Mr. Doe. For simplicity's sake." Her head tilted. "I assume you know to whom you are speaking?"

"Lyla Alden, expert in behavioral psychology and psychoanalysis," his eyes flicked up and down blandly, "government operative and advisor."

A grin stretched across her face. She seemed pleased. "You do your research, don't you? Fabulous. Now. This government I advise has a proposition for you."

"I'm listening."

"You see, Mr. Doe, there's been a… ah, development, wherein your particular expertise could be appreciated."

His brows went up, urging her on.

"Doubtless you remember your former target, Mr. Keefe," she continued smoothly. "A newly formed band of terrorists have taken him into custody. It is their intent to ransom him off to your former employers, where the K. Family assassination is concerned." Her bony hands hit the table, firmly, and Miss Alden leant forwards, dipping out of the light. Her fire-engine red glasses sparkled as she passed the lamp's glow. "We want you to extract him."

Keefe. He felt a pang of dark emotions welling in his gut. The first case he had failed in a long, long while.

"Why should I?" he asked, voice sharp.

"For a substantial fiscal reward, of course." The woman settled back. "And, the more obvious freedom."

"What's the catch?" his chin darted up a moment, sliding down slowly.

"There is none!" Miss Alden assured, and he didn't believe a word. "You rescue and return him, unharmed, intact, before he might have chance to divulge any unsettling information any way you please. Of course, we will track your movements and activity at all times during and before the operation. But if this mission is successful, you are free to go."

He spread out his fingers, tapping the desk to a gentle beat. His eyes narrowed. "How long would I have?"

"Two weeks."

"Impossible," he snorted, falling back in his seat. His arms folded. "My plans hinge on the details, on elements of certainty. I need to know every variable" his voice fell in pitch with each syllable, "in—side—and—out."

"You have two weeks. Mr. Doe." That unwavering, steady smile remained over her face. She raised her chin. "…That is, if we have a deal. What do you say?"

He watched her shrewdly. "I assume you'll supply the materials and information I may need."

"Within reason."

"And where will I work from?"

"An office location has been set aside for you. You have three stories at your disposal."

He nodded. Thoughts swirled in his mind. A new case. A time to exercise his talents, what he was good at, what he knew. The thought sent a thrill up his spine. "Very well." A smirk livened up as his blue eyes flashed: "Count me in."

The woman rose to her feet with a clack of her heels. He remained seated. "I'll need further details."

"All set aside for you, of course." She paused, a moment, and stated: "You get one shot, Mr. Doe. One stumble, one slip, and you're back in here." Her lips formed the words with exaggerated motion: "For life."

I'm so scared. The smirk grew, half a grin sliding up his face. The sneer hung around. "I won't…slip." He had spent years, so many years of his life doing this. Now it all hinged on this one mission, and now there was no way it could fail.

"We are asking you this because, in all our records, you have only failed once." Miss Alden's stretched smiled widened. "Make sure it doesn't happen again. I hope you have isolated your mistakes."

He watched her, silently. Lisa, his mind whispered, somewhere deep, down below. He kept it locked away. It won't be a problem, he told himself. Not this time.