RIVAL’S POV
After the fight, Thomas walked like someone who didn’t feel pain.
Not because he was tough — though he was — but because he’d trained himself to wear it like a second skin. That kind of pain didn’t buckle him. It fueled him.
I followed him down the hallway, a half-step behind, but watching.
Not protecting.
Not babysitting.
Just… watching.
He didn’t limp, didn’t glance back, didn’t ask me why I was quiet.
Good. I hated people who needed constant reassurance. But Thomas? He never once looked for permission to exist. That was dangerous. That was impressive.
When we reached the cell block, he peeled off his bloodied shirt without a word. His back was mottled with bruises, a few cuts still weeping red. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol off the shelf and hi
