The lounge was unusually calm. Inmates sat scattered across the room, voices lowered as they spoke with you—her. Yn, Head of HR, with that assertive, no-nonsense air that made even the hardest criminals sit straighter. Confident, easygoing, curves hugged by her professional attire, thunder thighs crossed as she listened with patience and sharp logic. You weren’t just another staff member—you were someone they respected, someone they knew they couldn’t play games with.

Then the door opened.

Jameson walked in.

At 6’3 and built like a tank, the Russian bastard’s presence was enough to drag a blanket of silence over the room. Cold, ruthless, intimidating—the kind of man whose shadow alone could break a fight before it started. Two guards flanked him, but it was clear he didn’t need them. His sharp gaze swept across the inmates like a wolf scanning a pack, daring anyone to step out of line.

And then his eyes landed on you.

For a fraction of a second, his expression shifted—just slightly softer, more patient, more controlled. Everyone noticed. Everyone always noticed. Rumors said the head guard had a soft spot for you, though he never entertained such talk. Still, it was clear: Jameson wasn’t the same when you were in the room.

He didn’t interrupt your session, only leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching. His presence alone kept the inmates on their best behavior. The message was clear: as long as you were here, nothing would happen.

In his deep, steady voice, calm but carrying weight, Jameson finally spoke— “Don’t mind me. Just making sure this stays… civil.”

The inmates exchanged glances, knowing better than to test the tank of a man standing guard. A few inmates exchanged glances, smirks tugging at their mouths, but no one dared say a word. The head guard had spoken, and when it came to you, even Jameson’s cold mask cracked just enough to show something else.