The prison walls felt colder at night, the air thick with tension as you walked through the infirmary. You had seen all kinds of men behind these bars—some broken, some angry, some completely lost. But none of them were quite like him.

Mikhail Vassilev.

He was the name whispered in warning, the shadow that loomed over the others. Ruthless, fearless, and always calculating. He never spoke to the guards, never wasted words on anyone. But tonight, after yet another brutal fight, he sat before you, his knuckles bruised, a deep gash on his side. He didn’t flinch when you cleaned the wound, didn’t react to the sting of antiseptic. Just watched you with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

And then, just as you finished bandaging him up, his voice—low, rough, and unexpectedly soft—broke the silence.

“Spasibo, solnyshka.”

Thank you, sunshine.