I struggle with silence, especially when I feel this alone. It’s like my brain thinks if I don’t fill the air, the dark will. I press my back harder against the wall, as if trying to anchor myself to thecold surface. With my voice trembling and broken, I whisper, “I hate this part.”
There’s no response. Not even a flinch. He’s either ignoring me or has withdrawn so deeply that nothing can reach him. King has always been good at disappearing without leaving the room.
I try again. “I keep waiting to wake up. Or for someone to kick down the door. Or—I don’t know. For someone to care.”
Still nothing.
I should stop. I know better. I’ve known King long enough to read between the silences. But there’s something about being trapped in hell with someone who knows you that makes the quiet unbearable.
King finally shifts. Not much. Just a flex of his jaw and a subtle inhale. But it’s enough. It means he’s listening.
“Jon.” My voice cracks on his name, scraping something raw on the way out. “Do you think he even—”
“Don’t,” King snaps, his voice low and gritty, like his throat’s been sandpapered by screams. He doesn’t look at me when he says it. He just breathes heavy through his nose and adds, “Now’s not the time.”
I go still. The words hit harder than any blow.
King finally lifts his gaze. His eyes are rimmed red, bloodshot, heavy with something that looks too much like guilt to be safe.
“You wanna survive this?” he mutters. “Then shut up. Save that pretty little chatter for after. If there’s an after.”
I flinch, but not from the words. From the way they land.
Hard. Blunt. Truthful.
The kind of truth no one else ever gave me—not even Jon.
King sighs. A long one. Drawn from somewhere beneath the cracked ribs and painkillers he never got. His head tips back against the wall, eyes closing for a beat like he’s gathering the strength to keep talking.
“You’ve always been talkative,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Not with everyone, just with… him. And me. And your parents, back then.” His eyes flicker toward the floor like he hates remembering. “And that’s fine. That’s you. But here? That’ll get you killed.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “I’m trying to stay sane.”
He laughs, but it’s a bitter, breathless sound that turns into a cough halfway through. “Sane is overrated.”
Silence stretches between us again, but it feels thicker this time—shared, not just mine. Less like a void and more like a blanket we’re both suffocating under.
I glance down at my hands. The cuffs cut deeper every time I move, and dried blood flakes off like old paint. I can’t help but think about how long it’s been since I touched someone without flinching. Since I felt the warmth of another person’s palm without it being to restrain or reposition me. Since Jon grabbed my arm at the range and barked something that wasn’t an order, yet still made me stand up straight.
God, I miss that version of us, even if it wasn’t real. Even if it was just tension and timing and my stupid, hopeful heart filling in the blanks.
King’s voice is raspier now, softer. “They want to break us. They want us weak enough to say something stupid.”
“And if there’s no one left to hear us when we’re done?” I ask, barely above a whisper. I’m not sure if I mean the enemy or Greenport. Or Jon.
His head tilts against the concrete. “Then we die quiet. Like soldiers.”
I’m not a soldier. I was trained like one, raised like one, and tested like one, but I’ve never truly been one. King wasn’t really a soldier either. He was a shadow—a ghost—someone who concealed the worst of the world behind a mask and a reputation that no one dared to challenge.
And now, here we are, both stripped of everything. Even the silence in this room feels heavier, less like protection and more like punishment.
I watch him for a long time, studying the patterns of blood blooming across his shirt. Some of it is fresh, a darker stain spreading slow. Some of it is older, dried, flaking with every breath. Eventually, I let my head fall back against the wall. I close my eyes and let the pain settle. I let the silence wrap itself around me like a blanket made of steel wool.
Perhaps King is right. Maybe now isn’t the time to be myself.
Maybe it never was.
Maybe all those glances from across briefing tables, the clipped tension crackling like storm-static every time Jonathan Cash so much as breathed near me—maybe none of it meant anything. Maybe I imagined it all. The heat. The weight. The thing that was never quite said but lived between us like it had teeth.
