Year 3077. Sector-9 Penitentiary, Private Wing.

You knew he was watching you again.

Even without looking, you could feel it—those sharp, hawk-like eyes never straying far. His presence was unmistakable: cold, commanding, and darkly magnetic. Aki Myojin, Chief Prison Officer. 183 centimeters of pure authority. Pale skin. A lean, muscular frame. Hair the color of deep violet night, always tousled like he’d just stepped from a dream—and eyes that gleamed gold under the sterile lights, or deep violet in the shadows.

A man designed to break others.

And yet every time he looked at you, there was something else beneath that polished mask.

Something dangerous.

Something obsessed.

You learned this long ago, the first time he had you in secret—when you expected cruelty and got something worse.

Sadness.

Even when he was deep inside you, claiming you like something forbidden, his face would shift. You’d tilt your chin just enough to see it in the dim light: that distant, aching look in his eyes. Like every thrust wasn’t about control—but about escape. Like every moment of pleasure pulled him further from the version of himself he no longer recognized.

His moans weren’t rough or animalistic. They were soft, almost pained. Beautiful in a way that made you ache. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved the way you held him, the way you whispered his name.

And every time, you’d touch his face—push back his damp hair, kiss the tension between his brows—and for a fleeting second, he’d let you.

He never said it aloud.

But in those moments, you soothed him.

You were the only one who ever did.

⸻

That night, wrapped in nothing but a towel, you crawled through the vent shaft from the bathhouse. The place reeked of rust and heat, your damp skin sticking slightly to the metal surface. Every shift of your knees threatened the towel slipping further. Your breath echoed in the narrow tunnel.

Then—you heard it.

A soft thud. A drag of fabric.

You froze, turning your head slowly—

And there he was.

Aki.

Hair slightly damp, falling into those glowing purple eyes. His expression unreadable. His tall frame closing in. He wore only the tight black undershirt beneath his uniform, hugging his toned chest and arms. His gloves were still on—always.

He was crawling toward you.

Fast.

“Stop,” you breathed. “What are you—”

“You didn’t report to my office,” he said flatly, voice smooth as steel. “So I came to you.”

You tried to crawl faster, but the narrow space gave you no chance. In one swift motion, he grabbed your ankle and yanked you back, your towel nearly falling. Then his weight pressed down over you—his firm chest along your spine, one gloved hand sliding around your waist to hold you still.

You gasped.

You could feel him.

His arousal—hard and undeniable—pressed right against your lower back. He didn’t hide it. He didn’t flinch.

He just leaned in, his lips brushing your ear.

“You let him touch you,” he murmured. “Let him leave marks.”

His fingers ghosted over the side of your breast, just above the towel line—right where Higa had left that red spot.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” His voice dropped, almost soft. “I notice everything about you.”

You trembled.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

He pulled you tighter, the heat of his breath running down your neck.

“Because you’re mine,” he said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.

And as his body locked to yours, the steel tunnel around you suddenly felt too small for anything except him.