Andrew's entire body ached with pain as he was dragged across the gravel outside the police station. His feet scraped against the sharp edges of broken stones and dry sticks. Every step felt like knives were slicing into his skin. Blood smeared from his toes as he tried to resist, but the two police officers gripping his arms were merciless. Their boots thudded heavily on the pavement while he stumbled between them, too weak to fight back. The weight of betrayal, the shock of Frank’s return, and the haunting image of Cynthia being dragged away burned behind his eyes like fire.He tried to lift his head but the sunlight was sharp, stabbing into his vision and forcing him to squint. Through blurry eyes, he saw the heavy metal doors of the station swing open as they approached. Inside, the air was thick and dry. The reception area had a dead silence, except for the slow ticking of a dusty wall clock and the sound of a fan rotating above.Without a word, the officers shoved Andrew into the

Silence had teeth. And for twenty-one long days, it had been chewing through Andrew’s sanity.Not three days. Not three nights. Three whole weeks, swallowed by the shadows of a cell that smelled like rust and forgotten souls.Andrew had stopped counting after the first ten. The walls of the cell made sure of it, pressing in on him until day and night blurred into one endless gray. The only clock that still ticked was in his chest—the hammering beat that refused to die.But every strike of his heart came with the same tormenting question.Where is Cynthia?The thought chewed through him like acid. Is she alive? Is she still breathing under Frank’s shadow, or has she already been swallowed whole by the man’s cruelty? His fists clenched, nails cutting into his palms, but there was no blood left to bleed. Just the raw ache of a man stripped of everything except memory.Her smile haunted him. Her voice echoed in the silence. He reached for it in the dark, only to clutch at air.The tiny bar

The room held its breath.Every gaze disdainfully turned toward the chained man in the center, as though he were not human but a creature dragged from the dark. Andrew stood bound, wrists raw from iron, his suit ruined, his body stiff like a soldier facing a firing squad.Silence suddenly pressed heavier, broken only by the faint scrape of shoes on the polished floor and the faint wheeze of someone in the back row. Even the ceiling lamps above seemed to burn hotter, pinning him beneath their glare.His pulse pounded. He had faced blades, fire, betrayal—but never this. Never a courtroom where truth itself had been turned into a weapon.Andrew’s jaw locked as he watched Cynthia stepping towards the witness stand delicately. His breath faltered. He remembered too much.Nights when the cold was unbearable and she pressed herself against him just to feel warmth. Mornings when she whispered she wanted freedom, wanted a life where no one owned them. The first time she said she loved him—with

They thought the bars would tame him. They thought prison would bury him like a forgotten corpse. But cages don’t kill wolves. They sharpen their fangs. And Andrew Blackwood was already born with blood on his teeth.The prison cafeteria roared with noise. Metal trays slammed, voices collided, boots dragged across concrete. The smell of stale bread and burnt beans clung to the air. Prisoners hunched over their meals like animals tearing into scraps, each bite an act of survival.Andrew sat down at his corner table, his tray sliding in front of him. His eyes froze. His food was not scraps. It was fresh, flavorful and mouthwatering!Chicken. Rice that wasn’t clumped. Vegetables that weren’t half-rotten. A piece of fruit glowing yellow under the dim lights.His eyes narrowed. Around him, men gnawed on bread hard as stone. Their soup was murky water. But his plate looked like something from a restaurant.Whispers rose. Prisoners looked at his tray, then at him. Some licked their lips. Some

They said prison breaks a man.But Andrew Blackwood wasn’t built to break. He was built to make the walls shiver.The showers steamed with the stench of rust and sweat. Prisoners stripped down to their underwear, bodies scarred, eyes burning with hunger. Andrew could feel it in his bones—too much silence, too much staring. Blood was in the air. Something was definitely gonna happen. Whispers circled like knives. He didn’t know if the storm was meant for him or someone else, but he could smell death waiting.Then he saw him.A boy, no more than nineteen, limping, dragging a broken leg across the tiles. His lip was split, one eye swollen shut, ribs clearly shattered beneath pale skin. He was crawling toward a faucet, shaking like a cornered animal.Andrew moved without thinking, crouching beside him.“Hey! Are you okay? Who did this to you?” his voice low and firm.The boy’s red eyes glistened. A single tear slid down his cheek before he jerked his head away, glancing at the circling me