The air carried a faint scent of disinfectant, mingled with the subtle aroma of porridge.
"You're still not leaving?" Sylvan Cheney was the first to speak.
"The porridge is on the table, help yourself."
Sylvan Cheney remained silent.
"Sylvan, there aren't many days left before the final trial. Once the verdict is reached, you'll spend a good part of your life in prison. Have you thought it through?"
"What, are you planning to break me out? There are cops all over outside, and this is the eighth floor." Sylvan's tone was laced with mocking sarcasm.
"Break you out? With a bright future ahead of me, I'm not about to commit a crime for someone I don't even care about. I never intended to care about your fate, yet the world is full of fools who, after being harmed and stabbed, still go to help the very person who hurt them."
Sylvan detected the underlying meaning in Yukon Carbon's words, and opened his eyes, his gaze sharp: "What do you mean."
