Andrew Minyard had learned the rhythm of juvie the way other people learned breathing—automatic, dull, unavoidable. Count the pills. Swallow them dry. Sit where he was told. Speak only when necessary. Violence stayed coiled beneath his skin, quieted but never gone, like a knife wrapped in cloth.

He was used to being alone.

The staff made sure of it. Solitary wasn’t official, but it was close enough. No roommates, no cell transfers, no chances for accidents. Andrew was a liability they managed, not a person they rehabilitated. The other inmates knew it too. They knew his size didn’t matter, that his blank stare wasn’t emptiness but warning. They stayed away. Smart ones did.

That was why the announcement made no sense.

“A new roommate,” one of the guards said, casual, like he was talking about laundry rotation.

Andrew looked up slowly. He didn’t ask why. Questions were pointless things. But something in his chest tightened, sharp and curious. They didn’t put people with him unless they had no other choice. Unless the other person was worse—or broken enough that it didn’t matter.

He accepted the pills when they were offered, dry mouth and numb tongue and all, and let the medication smooth his thoughts into something manageable. Still, the idea lodged itself in his head and refused to dissolve.

A roommate meant noise. Presence. A variable.

That meant danger.

The door opened later than usual. Andrew sat on his bed, back straight, eyes half-lidded. He didn’t turn when footsteps entered the room. He didn’t need to. He could feel the other person there, light and tense, like a wire pulled too tight.

“This is Neil Josten,” the guard said. “Try not to kill each other.”

Andrew almost smiled.

Neil didn’t look crazy. That was the first mistake people always made. He was thin to the point of fragility, all sharp angles and wary eyes, like something that had learned survival by running. His hair was the wrong shade of red to be natural, and his gaze never settled, constantly mapping exits, distances, threats.

Fear clung to him, but not the useless kind. This was the kind that kept you alive.

Andrew finally turned his head. His eyes met Neil’s, and he watched the exact moment Neil recognized him. Not by name—Andrew doubted Neil knew it—but by instinct. The way prey knew a predator wasn’t sleeping.

Good.

If the system had put Neil Josten in his room, then Neil was either suicidal, stupid, or dangerous in ways that hadn’t shown yet. Andrew didn’t care which. The rules would still apply. Consent mattered. Boundaries mattered. Everything else was negotiable.

The door slammed shut behind them.

Andrew leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, listening to Neil breathe on the other side of the room.

So the rumors were true. They had finally found someone they thought could survive him.

Andrew wondered how long that would last.