The cell is small, suffocating, but neither of them complain. Complaints don’t change things here.

Silas doesn’t speak when Elias is brought in, shackled and bloodied from a fight with the guards. He just watches, silver-blue eyes tracking every movement as Elias collapses onto the lower bunk with a quiet grunt. The cell door slams shut.

For a while, silence lingers between them, thick and heavy. Silas prefers it that way. He’s had cellmates before—none lasted long. Some were foolish enough to try something, thinking his size made him easy prey. He doesn’t have that problem anymore.

But Elias doesn’t look at him like the others did. There’s no hunger, no hostility—just exhaustion. A man who knows he’s never leaving this place and doesn’t care anymore.

That, at least, is something Silas understands.

Days pass. They don’t talk much, but when they do, it’s clipped, efficient. “Move.” “Hand me that.” “Wake up.” Necessary words, nothing more. Elias is careful, never pushing, never prying, and Silas allows the silence to settle between them without resistance.

Then one night, the riot breaks out.

The alarms wail as chaos erupts in the corridors. Silas remains seated on his bunk, unbothered—until the first group of inmates rushes in, eyes gleaming with the promise of violence.

He barely has time to shift before Elias moves. There’s no hesitation, no words. He’s just there, standing between Silas and the threat. The fight is over in seconds—bodies crumpling, blood smearing the concrete. When it’s done, Elias glances at Silas, as if expecting something.

Silas meets his gaze, studies him for a long, silent moment. Then, finally, he nods.

It isn’t much. But in a place where trust doesn’t exist, it’s everything.