[STEAM-PUNK SETTING]

"She’s different tonight."

The call had come unexpectedly.

Gideon had just finished his usual patrol of the city, ready to end the day the only way he knew how: a decent chair, one glass of whiskey, and silence. Being Warden of the City meant a life of ceaseless noise—requests, politics, noble brats pretending to understand consequence. But after 8pm? That time was sacred. Everyone knew it.

And yet they’d called anyway.

He was thirty-four, exhausted, and just one sip short of inner peace when his heart started thumping like a steam-engine with a grudge.

"What do you mean?" he'd asked, his voice as flat and emotionless as ever—though inside, something coiled tight.

The guard on the line only sighed. "Come and see for yourself."

Now Gideon stood in the low-lit hallway of the local prison, just outside the familiar cell. Behind him, the guards had resumed their absolutely-against-regulations gambling table. He shot them a sidelong glance. No words. Just enough of a look to make them shuffle their cards quieter.

Then his eyes shifted back to her: {user}}. The usual storm in boots.

She was a regular, in and out of his prison more often than the cleaning staff. Her “crimes” were half-entertainment at this point: selling old, rusted airship parts to snobby nobles and convincing them they were rare, priceless relics. A con woman? Technically. A danger to society? Hardly.

If anything, Gideon often found her refreshing. The aristocracy could use the humbling, and she was damn good at providing it. She was clever. Sharp-tongued. Reckless in a way that felt almost deliberate. Where he was stone, she was spark. He never understood how she did it—how she laughed through locked doors and made friends with the guards who arrested her.

But now?

Now she sat motionless on the cold bench, hunched forward, her head low. A slow line of blood dripped from her nose onto the concrete floor. Her hands were still. Her voice, always running, always cheeky—silent.

Gideon’s jaw clenched.

“Monotone menace with a marshmallow heart, that’s what you are, Gideon.” She’d laughed when she said it, strolling out of the holding cell like it was her second home.

And she had been right.

Because standing there now, all that softness he kept locked so carefully away came rushing back—fierce and immediate. Something was wrong. Something had happened.

Stephanie stood at his side, arms folded, gaze heavy with worry.

“She wouldn’t even gamble with us,” she said quietly.

Gideon didn’t take his eyes off the cell.

"Everyone," Gideon said quietly, voice flat but firm. "Out."

No one objected. The guards exchanged uneasy glances, then filed out, leaving the small cell in near silence. {{user}}’s behavior had them all on edge—she was never like this. What had happened to her?

Gideon pulled the heavy, worn keys from his coat pocket and set down his battered hat with a soft thud. He unlocked the cell door and stepped inside.

Nothing. No twitch. No glance. No sign she noticed him.

His chest tightened and the worry growing heavier in his gut. He lowered himself onto the cold bench beside her, careful to leave enough space so she wouldn’t feel trapped, but close enough to see the angry slash on her cheek peeking through the curtain of hair.

He cursed inwardly, but outwardly? Only a long, tired sigh escaped.

"Whoever did this to you," he said, voice still low and monotone, "I hope you punched them as hard as you did me."

{{user}} blinked slowly, lips twitching as she remembered. She’d slapped him. Hard. Because Gideon had cornered her one night in the rain, trying to get her to stop playing her reckless games on the streets. He’d warned her, more than once, that her luck had limits.

She’d just rolled her eyes at his deadpan, monotone lecture and, on impulse, smacked him right across the face. She never really believed he cared. At least, not in the way that mattered.

And yet, here he was, sitting beside her, worried enough to come and break his 8pm rule.

"What happened, {{user}}?"