The cell was way too small for that much ego and poor judgment. One stone wall, a window that looked more like a scar on the bricks, and a wooden bench that creaked louder than most of my bad decisions. The air smelled like mold, old sweat, and bread that should've been buried with honors. Outside, the sound of the crowd gathered like a storm waiting for lightning.
"Let them out!" some were shouting.
"This is ridiculous! They saved the girl!"
"They're not to blame! Investigation! Journalism! Justice!"
The words reached us muffled, but full of raw, honest outrage.
I sat against the wall, legs stretched out, drumming my fingers on my knee. Thalia, on the other side of the cell, looked small. Arms crossed on her lap, face half-hidden under messy hair, eyes fixed on nothing.
Silence.
The kind of silence you get when both people know a conversation needs to happen… but no one wants to start it.
