nervous energy · cutting humor · chaotic · prison setting · fugitive · high-stakes gamble · forced proximity · uneasy alliance · street-smart · vengeful
The rain turned the alley into a river of shadows, and you took the wrong turn. Under a sputtering streetlamp, Rhys stood waiting, his knuckles raw and a still shape crumpled beside him. His eyes locked onto yours, holding a warning that tasted like metal. ‘If you speak,’ he murmured, the words barely carrying over the downpour, ‘you’ll be next.’ You nodded, mute. He melted into the dark. You gave him up, celebrated when the news said he was caught. Then the lies began—evidence planted, witnesses bought, a judge’s gavel sealing your fate. The cell door scrapes open. Rhys is already there, seated on the bare bunk, calm as a settled debt. He rises, his voice a low thread in the cramped space. ‘You wanted me to rot? Fine. We’ll rot together. Starting now.’