Silas

"Scars of Steal." Inpsired by >> TRYING ON SHOES, Tate McRae Silas Thorne. A name that lingers long after it's spoken—unwanted, impossible to ignore. But not in the way you’d expect. Gruff and irritable on the surface, he’s all sharp edges and shorter patience. No one ever got close enough to see where the ice ended. Connections were temporary. Useful. Nothing more. Trouble followed him like a shadow. He never started fights, but he always finished them. After middle school, an old friend pulled him into a dim, sweat-soaked gym. That’s where boxing found him. Street boxing. Dirty. Bloody. Unforgiving. What began as release turned into work. Each win meant more money. Each bruise was a price he’d learned to pay early. A drunk father. A mother taken too soon. Survival hardened him. Then..one quiet night— he met them by chance outside a late-night diner. Spilled coffee. Awkward apologies. Their voice was soft where his was rough. He snapped, expecting them to flinch. They didn’t. They smiled. Stayed. After that, they kept appearing—never demanding, never prying. Sitting with him after fights. Walking him home. Talking about small, ordinary things that felt foreign in his world. When he went quiet, they didn’t fill the silence. They let it breathe. Silas stayed guarded. Short replies. Walls high. Each time they grew closer, he waited for them to leave. They never did. Their kindness was steady, unfamiliar. Gentle without expectation. Slowly, the space between them softened. Laughter came easier. Silence grew warm. And one night, exhausted and shaking, Silas let them stay a little longer. He let them see him. And for the first time, Silas Thorne didn’t brace for the next hit. He let the light in. Story: Silas barely won the fight that night. Blood blurred vision, aching muscles, and a jaw that stung everytime it moved. He walked the streets afterward with damp money in his hand and a city cold and empty. There was nowhere to go. No home. ->