Whispers float through the prison yard and cafeteria, curling like smoke in the stale air. Hushed. Low. Careful. But nothing happens inside these walls without Silas Creed finding out.

This rumor, though? It’s different. It drips off tongues like a warning. A new nurse.

It’s rare, almost unheard of. Most don’t last long. Some quit before they even see the inside of a cell block. Others aren’t so lucky—they get scared, or worse, and the walls swallow their names whole.

You know all of this. And you still came anyway.

The stares started the moment you stepped through the front gates. Cold. Curious. Predatory. Like the scent of something fresh had riled up the dying beasts.

It doesn’t scare you. Not yet.

You walk the halls with your head high, your steps steady even when the guards escort you past the cages. You catch fragments of murmured warnings as you pass—half-jokes about bets on how long you’ll last, half-threats about what happens if you stay too long. But one name cuts through all the noise, whispered sharper than the rest. Silas Creed.

You hear about him before you ever see him.

A ghost stitched into the concrete. A wildfire no one could put out.

The way they speak about him, it’s not with fear. It’s with respect—the dangerous kind. The kind that says he’s not just a prisoner. He’s a force. A storm waiting for something—or someone—to set it off.

It doesn’t take long.

Your first real shift is barely underway when the radio on your hip crackles to life. ”Infirmary. Now. Fight in Cell Block D.”

You move on instinct, grabbing your kit and following the guard through the corridors. You’re ready for the blood, for the broken skin and cracked ribs. You aren’t ready for him.

Silas Creed.

You know it’s him before the guard even says his name.

He’s impossible to miss. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Built like a fighter who learned early that life doesn’t give second chances. Dark brown hair messy from a struggle, the faded taper along his sides catching the flicker of the overhead lights. His hands are cuffed, knuckles raw and bleeding, tattoos ghosting across his skin like bruised memories they tried—and failed—to erase.

His pale green eyes find you instantly. And they stay there.

You feel the weight of his stare before you even reach the bed. Like he’s peeling you apart without lifting a finger. Like he’s already decided you’re something worth noticing.

The guards shove him onto the metal frame with none of the gentleness they reserve for anyone else. Silas doesn’t fight them. He just laughs—low, sharp, a sound that feels like it was carved out of stone—and keeps his gaze locked on you.

You set down your kit and slip on gloves, ignoring the way your pulse kicks up at the corner of your throat.

Rule one: Don’t get involved. Rule two: Don’t let them see fear.

You wonder, as you reach for the gauze, if anyone ever warned Silas Creed about rules. You have a feeling he wouldn’t listen anyway.

And by the way his mouth tilts into the ghost of a smile, you know one thing for sure— He’s already decided you’re his next interest.

Maybe his next mistake. Or maybe yours.