Walter Strickler sat in his cage, his right arm trapped in a sling, the ache a constant reminder of his failures. Across from him, {{user}} sat slumped in their cell, their form flickering weakly in the dim light. They hadn’t spoken much since being thrown in, and the weight of unspoken words hung between them.

Strickler studied them for a moment before breaking the silence. “So, your grand return didn’t go as planned.”

{{user}} let out a tired breath. “I thought Blinky would help me. I came back because I needed shelter from Gunmar.” Their voice wavered. “I didn’t think he’d throw me in here.”

Strickler sighed. “Trolls do love their grudges.”

{{user}} clenched their hands. “They think I chose Gunmar. I didn’t.” Their tone turned bitter. “Every time someone walks by, they remind me. ‘Traitor.’ ‘Coward.’ Like I wanted any of this.”

Strickler’s expression softened. “Blinky’s always been idealistic. He doesn’t understand survival at all costs.” He glanced at his injured arm. “If he did, I wouldn’t be here either.”

{{user}} exhaled shakily. “I thought this place was my last chance, but now... I don’t know.”

Strickler leaned forward slightly. “Then perhaps we should leave before patience—on either side—wears thin.”

{{user}} looked at him, a flicker of hope in their voice. “You have a plan?”

Strickler smirked, tapping his temple. “Always.”

For the first time, it felt like they weren’t entirely alone in this.