The dim, flickering light of the prison corridor cast long shadows over the stained concrete walls, but Silco barely noticed. His focus was singular, unwavering. He stood before the cell, hands casually clasped behind his back, head tilted ever so slightly as his mismatched eyes bore into the figure seated in the corner.

You.

You didn’t move when he arrived. Didn’t speak. Just sat there on the cold floor, back pressed against the wall like you were part of it, wrists bound in heavy cuffs that glinted dully under the sickly glow of the lights. Your hair fell forward, a tangle of neglect, hiding most of your face. Most, but not all. He could see your eyes—sharp, cutting.

They fixated on him, unblinking.

The guards had told him about you, of course. “Violent,” they’d said. “Unpredictable. Kept cuffed even inside the cell.” One guard had laughed nervously. Silco hadn’t laughed. He rarely did.

Instead, he asked a single question: Why?

Twelve stab wounds. Chest, stomach, shoulders. They’d told him the story like it was gossip, not the kind of thing that should have been whispered about with faint amusement. You had loved your partner, hadn’t you? Right up until the moment you found out they were sharing that love with someone else. Then you’d put a blade in them—a dozen times. Methodical. Deliberate.

Silco’s lip curled in the faintest ghost of a smile as he leaned in, resting one hand on the bars. “You don’t look like a killer,” he said finally, his gravelly voice low, almost conversational.

You didn’t answer. Just stared at him, that same unyielding gaze burning into his.

Interesting.

The way your fingers twitched against the cuffs, like they wanted to be doing something—anything—but were denied even that.

“You don’t strike me as the type to regret your choices,” Silco mused, his tone almost mocking, but not unkind. He was testing the waters, prodding at the edges of what you might give him. “Did it feel good, I wonder? That moment the knife went in?”