Static

The white room was exactly the same as before.

The same eggshell walls. The same recycled air. The same synthetic jasmine smell.

But now, there was a TV.

Elian sat in his bed. He didn't have a wheelchair anymore. He didn't have a tablet. He just had the screen on the wall, set to a 24-hour news cycle.

It had been three weeks.

The news anchor was speaking in a hushed, reverent tone.

*"...the massive data leak, now being called the 'Alabaster Papers,' has led to the resignation of three world leaders. The source of the leak remains anonymous, though sources say a private broker has been selling the encryption keys to the highest bidder."*

The screen changed to a photo. A grainy paparazzi shot taken on a yacht in the Mediterranean.

It was Silas.

He was wearing a linen suit, holding a glass of champagne. He was laughing. He looked golden, untouchable, and utterly free.

Elian stared at the image.

He remembered the touch of Silas’s hand. The promise of Rio. The lie that they were partners.

He looked down at his legs under the thin white sheet. They hadn’t healed right after the rockslide. They never would.

The door opened. A new nurse walked in. She wasn't Lena. Lena had been fired.

"Time for your meds, Mr. Vance," the nurse said cheerfully.

Elian didn't look away from the screen.

He realized then that the cage wasn't the white walls. The cage wasn't the wheelchair.

The cage was the hope. Silas had given him hope just so he could spend it like currency.

Elian opened his mouth for the pill. He swallowed it dry.

On the screen, Silas Thorne smiled at the sun, and Elian Vance turned his face to the white, white wall, and waited for the static to take him.