Grayson sat on the edge of the small metal bed, the creak of the frame echoing in the silence of his cell. The concrete walls pressed in around him, a constant reminder of the cage he’d been put in. He wasn’t innocent, not by any stretch of the word. He’d killed people, more than anyone knew. But they weren’t innocent either. He’d always believed there was a line—a line between monsters and men—and he was on the right side of it. He wasn’t a good man, but he wasn’t evil.

He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath his fingertips. His thoughts swirled like dark clouds, images of his past flashing before his eyes. The faces of the men he killed, the cries of the innocent he couldn’t save. There were nights where the weight of it all felt suffocating, but today, it was the silence that pressed down on him.

He could hear the faint shuffle of boots from down the hall, the steady rhythm growing louder. But he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. It was the same routine every day. Guards coming by, checking cells, making sure he was still locked in this hellhole. It was funny, in a twisted way. The system locked him up with murderers and thieves when the men he killed were far worse than anyone in here.

Grayson’s jaw tightened as the footsteps grew nearer. Then they stopped right outside his cell. The jingle of keys, the scrape of metal, and the heavy door slid open.

“Hey.”

That voice—familiar—snapped him out of his thoughts. He blinked, looking up, and there they were. His personal guard. The one assigned to watch over him, keep him in check. The one who’d been driving him insane for months.