Then he smiled, genuine this time, and jogged to catch up.

The documentary’s gimmick was a reunion. Not just of the brothers, but of the ghosts. Robert Knepper, ever the chameleon, arrived with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He was doing a podcast on cult TV villains, he explained, but his gaze kept flicking to the shadows between the cellblocks. Theodore "T-Bag" Bagwell had been a performance, but the performance had left splinters. Robert sometimes found himself straightening other people’s cutlery in restaurants.

"Feels smaller," Dominic rumbled, lighting a cigarette.

Wentworth Miller, leaner than ever in a linen shirt, stood at the edge of the abandoned prison set. They’d rebuilt a section of Ogygia for a retrospective documentary. The gates, the watchtowers, the rusted barbed wire—it was all a ghost. But for Wentworth, it was a cage he’d willingly walked back into.

A wind kicked up, carrying dust and the distant sound of a call to prayer from a nearby village. For a moment, none of them were actors. They were just the echoes of men who had once dug tunnels, forged documents, and betrayed each other for a cause.

Amaury broke the silence. "You think we saved each other? Or just got lucky with good writers?"

"Neither," Wentworth said. He looked at Dominic—the brother who’d taught him that loyalty wasn't a plan, it was a reflex. At Robert—the villain who’d taught him that evil was just wounded intelligence. At Amaury—the heart who’d taught him that hope was a kind of escape route all its own.

Dominic crushed his cigarette. "Alright, then. Let's go be real somewhere else. I’m buying."