Broken Hands

122. All for rescue

The cage was steeped in darkness, the air thick with the stench of sweat and something fouler—blood, maybe, or the rot of lost hope. The silence clung to them like damp heat, light but suffocating, stretching across the small, caged-in space with an eerie weight.

Then, Russell's voice cut through, soft at first, then stronger.

"Abide with me; fast falls the eventide..."

The solemn hymn floated through the air, unwavering despite the tension curling in his chest. It was a song he had grown up hearing, the one the choir sang at funerals, in church, in times when people needed something—anything—to hold on to. His voice, steady and calm, wove through the metal grids, through the uncertainty, through the dark that threatened to close in around them.

He didn't know why he started singing. Maybe for himself, maybe for Grayson.

Probably for both.

Russell exhaled slowly, his eyes trained on the motionless figure in the corner—Grayson.

He sat with his back to him, curled in on himself, his breathing barely audible. The dim, flickering light from outside the bars threw jagged shadows across his hunched form, making him look even smaller, even more closed off.

His lip was split deep, blood drying in the cracks. A bruise shadowed his chin, dark and spreading. His nose had bled earlier, and Russell had watched in silent fury as Grayson wiped it away carelessly, like it was nothing. Like it wasn't just another injury on a long list.

But it was his ribs that worried Russell most.

The way Grayson held himself—stiff, rigid, every movement cautious—told him everything.

Russell clenched his fists.

He had been livid when they threw Grayson into the cage, stunned when he saw how bad off he was.

For a split second, he thought they had tortured him.

But then Grayson spoke, voice rough but matter-of-fact, telling him what had happened in the arena.

Russell still couldn't wrap his head around it.

Fighting for bets. For money. Like animals in a pit. People watching, cheering, gambling with lives like it was some sick form of entertainment. The sheer cruelty of it made his stomach churn. He was disappointed in humanity.

But more than anything, Russell hated that Grayson was hurting.

He wanted to reach out, to pull him close, to tell him they'd figure this out.

But he knew better.

Grayson wasn't the type to accept comfort. He would push it away, bury it, let it fester under layers of pride and stubborn silence. He carried things alone, shouldered pain like it was his birthright.

And right now, Russell could feel the weight pressing down on his cousin, drowning him in his own silence.

Russell couldn't just do nothing.

He needed Grayson to talk. To do something other than sit there and suffer in silence.

"Julian would say 'They could make it better,'" Russell murmured after a pause, his voice slicing through the quiet, warm with a hidden concern.

Still, nothing.

Russell let out a slow breath. "Grayson," he called softly.

No response. No movement.

Russell's jaw tightened slightly. "Gray."

Still nothing.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before leaning back against the cold metal.