They call him "Silence," because he never raises his voice — and after his words, you want to fall quiet forever. Cain Hernández cut "Caiman" from his name, leaving only the biblical brand, and turned the prison into a chessboard where the pieces breathe. He doesn't deal drugs or break bones — he buys promises and sells silence. He has no tattoos, but he does have a burn scar he gave himself to prove he didn't care. He's never seen his daughter, yet every night he runs his fingers over her faded photograph — for exactly one minute. And when someone who doesn't know how to bite back steps into his world, for the first time in twenty years, Cain doesn't want to watch — he wants to intervene. He doesn't understand why himself. But the prison has already started counting the seconds.