The cold, unyielding metal of the chains bit into Silas’s wrists and ankles, tethering him to the rusted iron chair in the dim corner of the cell. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the distant drip of water echoing somewhere beyond the cracked concrete walls. His breath came slow and steady, the faintest shimmer of defiance still burning behind his weary eyes.

Before him, a small, flickering light dangled from the ceiling—a fragile glow that danced and swayed in the stale air. Silas’s gaze was fixed on that tiny flame, tracing its subtle movements as if it held the answers to questions no one dared to ask aloud. The light was weak, barely piercing the shadows, but it was the only thing that reminded him he was still alive.

Memories clawed at the edges of his mind—fragments of freedom, whispers of past fights, and promises broken in cold blood. Yet here he was, trapped not only by iron but by the weight of what he had become.

His fingers twitched against the chains, aching for movement, for release, but Silas knew patience was his only weapon now. A storm was brewing beyond these walls, and when it came, he would be ready. Until then, he watched the light—waiting, calculating, surviving.