Mal knocked again. “You alive in there? Not that we, you know, care, but if we did-“

Once again there was only silence. The five men exchanged frowns, and Mal hammered on the door. “Comin’ in there in about ten seconds, ‘less we hear somethin’.”

Receiving only silence in return, Mal glanced around at the others and shoved the door open, his hands raised to defend himself from attack. Straaker lay curled on his side on the concrete floor, dark red blood smeared on the walls and floor near where he was lying, clutching his wrist with one bloody hand.

“Gàn má bì děi wo rě jië shà yú dì yù!” muttered Mal, moving rapidly to Straaker’s side and kneeling. He pulled Straaker’s hand firmly away from his wrist, ignoring his cries of protest. Buried in his palm was the tiny blade from a safety razor, and cuts, most of them shallow, crossed his wrist. Two were deeper and bleeding profusely, but Mal’s cursory inspection told him that the bleeding was anything but life-threatening. He pulled the blade from Straaker’s palm, gripping his arm reassuringly as he whimpered in pain, pulling his legs closer to his body and clenching his closed eyes even tighter.

The four other occupants of the room stood stunned and speechless, watching through the door. “Are – is he all right?” asked Matty hesitantly after a minute.

“Not gonna die,” said Mal. Still holding Straaker lightly, he said, “One of you get the guard. This ain’t gonna be pleasant on any of us, but he belongs on suicide watch.”

“No!” protested Straaker, speaking for the first time. “Don’t let them take me. I - know you guys don’t like me, but please - please let me stay.”

“Stay here an’ get yourself dead? That’s not an option,” said Mal.

Straaker closed his eyes again and looked away. “I – I couldn’t go through with it, I couldn’t make myself cut that deep. It…..hurt. Please don’t send me away - I just – I can’t handle being put in a cell again.”

The desperation in his voice reminded Mal of the agonizing starkness