Chapter 1
Silas
Four walls.
The same four walls.
Peeling wallpaper curls at the seams like it’s trying to escape.
The paint beneath it is the color of old bones.
The beds creak if you so much as breathe wrong, thin mattresses sagging in the middle like they’ve given up holding anyone properly.
The pillows are lumpy, stuffed with more than cotton half the time.
Contraband shifts from room to room like currency.
A lighter. A blade. A folded note with a phone number that leads nowhere good.
There’s a barred window near my head. It lets in just enough light to remind me what I’m missing. St. Augustine doesn’t waste money on replacing burned bulbs or fixing broken fixtures. If something works halfway, that’s good enough. Half-lit rooms for half-saved kids.
Four walls.
The same four walls I’ve stared at for the last four years.
Same bed. Same cracked tile under my shoes. Same desk with initials carved into the wood by hands that don’t live here anymore. I’ve memorized the pattern in the wallpaper. I know which board in the floor groans first when someone shifts their weight.
The only thing that changes are the roommates.
They come in angry...hollow. They leave quieter... maybe even softer. Or sometimes they leave in handcuffs. Very few stay as long as I have. Most of them get turned around with a little structure and the promise of something else.
It’s almost funny, how easy it is to reshape the damaged when you give them a roof and the illusion of a fresh start.
They all act hard at first. Arms crossed.
Eyes sharp. Pretending they don’t care. Then a couple walks through those front doors, smiling too wide, dressed too neat, looking like they stepped out of a catalog.
Suddenly everyone sits up straighter.
Everyone hopes.
The happy couple tours the halls. They nod sympathetically at the Warden. They ask about grades and hobbies and progress. They peer into rooms like they’re browsing shelves.
I’ve heard what it feels like when they choose you. How they look at you like you’re already theirs. Like you’re not just a file. Like you’re something worth taking home.
No one ever looked at me like that.
The minute they read my file, the shift happens. The polite smile tightens. The questions change. The Warden calls it an accident, every single time, like repetition makes it softer.
An accident, he says, referring to my father’s death.
One internet search proves otherwise.
Fourteen-year-old boy. Brutal attack. Multiple stab wounds. Domestic incident.
Those are the words they see.
They don’t see the nights before it. They don’t see the police reports buried under stacks of ignored CPS calls. They don’t see what it takes to push a kid that far.
They just see what I did.
And what I did was not small.
He deserved it.
He deserved every fucking hit.
Every fucking slash.
Every scream he let out.
Every ounce of pain I carved into him.
They can call me damaged. They can shake their heads and whisper about how tragic it all is. They can use his long track record of CPS visits to explain it away like it was inevitable, like I was just another statistic waiting to happen.
But I know something they don’t.
I know that when I swung that first time, I didn’t hesitate.
I know that when I kept going, it wasn’t just fear driving me.
I know that deep down, in a place I don’t talk about, I felt powerful.
Alive.
And I-
“Silas?”
My name cuts through the room.
I snap my head around so fast my neck protests. Adrian stands behind my desk chair, brows drawn together.
How long has he been there?
His braces catch the light when he shifts his weight. His stance is uneven, but he holds himself like he doesn’t want pity from anyone. His eyes are steady on me.
“Did you hear anything I just said?” he asks.
Adrian’s been here almost as long as I have. Long enough to know when I disappear into my own head. In every other universe, he would’ve been someone’s first pick. Fourteen. Kind eyes. Soft voice. The kind of gentleness that feels out of place in a building like this.
He’s the kind of kid couples say they’re looking for.
But this isn’t every universe.
And there isn’t exactly a line out the door for a child with cerebral palsy.
He waits for my answer, searching my face for signs of where I just went.
Pivoting toward him, I lightly tap one of his forearm canes with my foot, nudging the rubber tip just enough to make it squeak against the tile.
The sound echoes faintly in the half-lit room.
He glances down at it, then back up at me.
Despite the tension sitting in his shoulders, a small smile pulls at his mouth.
“It’s hard to hear over the sound of you marching in here with those things,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair.
His eyes roll slowly, exaggerated. “Would you rather I crawl?” he fires back, swinging one of the canes sideways so it knocks into my leg.
The hit barely registers. My body processes pain differently these days. It’s more of a notification than a sensation. Still, I force a reaction, rubbing my thigh and hissing under my breath like it actually stung.
Can’t have him noticing how little I feel anymore.
“I can’t say it wouldn’t be entertaining,” I say, letting a smirk settle on my lips.
“I’m sure,” he replies dryly.
He maneuvers himself carefully onto my bed, bracing his weight as the mattress dips beneath him.
The springs creak in protest. His eyes move around the room, scanning corners, the empty beds, the narrow bathroom doorway.
There’s a hesitation in the way he looks at the space, like he’s bracing for someone else to be standing there.
“No one else is in here,” I tell him, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “They’re all out doing chores for the Warden. Scrubbing floors. Sorting laundry. Trying to earn gold stars.” I study his face. “Is there a reason you look like you’re expecting a ghost?”
He exhales slowly. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s never nothing,” I reply, my tone softer than the words.
The last time he said that, Nick Gardner had thought it was funny to hide Adrian’s canes as a joke. I’d found them tucked under his mattress. Nick spent the rest of that afternoon with his face pressed against his own headboard while I reminded him how fragile teeth can be.
“Last time it was nothing,” I say now, “I made Nick Gardner eat his headboard before kindly apologizing to you.”
Adrian lets out a quiet laugh, the tension easing for a second. “I remember. I still think one of his teeth is under his bed.”
“Probably is,” I say with a shrug.
Violence has always come easily to me. It fits into my hands like it was built for them. Most of the kids here either keep their distance or pretend not to notice it. Adrian never does. He doesn’t treat me like I’m something to be avoided. He doesn’t look at me like I’m dangerous.
Maybe that’s why I tolerate him. Maybe that’s why I don’t mind when he lingers.
“I was expecting someone else to be in here,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now.
“Other than the Warden?” I scoff. “Or the idiots I share a room with?”
“A couple,” he interrupts.
The word shifts something in the air.
“There’s a couple in the office with the Warden,” he continues, watching me carefully. “They’re asking about you.”
I let out a short laugh, pushing myself upright as I roll up my sleeves. The fabric slides past my wrists, revealing the dark ink that climbs both of my forearms. A forest of black silhouettes stretches upward from my wrists, trees layered and thick, their shadows dense.
My eyes flick down automatically.
It covers them.
The scars disappear beneath bark and branches. No raised lines. No pale reminders.
I check every time without meaning to.
“What?” I say, looking back at him. “They find out I’m eighteen and suddenly want to file a complaint because I glared at them in the hallway?” I shake my head. “Or maybe they’re here to congratulate me on my stellar behavior record.”
Adrian doesn’t smile.
He shifts on the mattress, fingers tightening slightly around one of his canes. “They weren’t laughing,” he says. “They looked… serious.”
I hold his gaze for a second longer than I should.
Couples don’t come here for boys like me.
They walk these halls searching for soft edges. For second chances that look clean on paper. They don’t search for a file that reads like mine does. They don’t choose the kid who killed his father, even if every CPS report stacked beneath that headline tells a different story.
“About me,” I repeat, slower this time.
The room feels smaller suddenly. The four walls closer. The barred window catching light that doesn’t quite reach us.
I straighten my sleeves, covering the forest again.
Whatever they want, it won’t be simple.
“Silas, they were talking about-”
“Here he is!”
The Warden’s voice barrels into the room before Adrian can finish.
It’s loud and theatrical, the kind of tone he uses when he wants to sound benevolent instead of controlling.
Adrian startles beside me, his shoulders jerking slightly.
I don’t move. I just turn my head slowly toward the doorway, irritation already simmering under my skin.
The Warden steps inside with that polished smile he saves for donors and inspection days. He smells faintly of aftershave and mothballs. Behind him, I hear the soft scuff of shoes against tile. Not staff boots. Not the heavy tread of guards.
Something lighter.
“Silas Corvin,” the Warden announces, gesturing toward me like I’m on display. “And his friend Adrian…” He pauses, clearly forgetting.
“Vale,” I finish for him, leaning back in my chair. “What the hell do you want? All my work’s done.”
I expect the usual reprimand. Instead, he chuckles, straightening his tie as if we’re exchanging harmless jokes.
“Funny one, this boy is,” he says over his shoulder.