The air in the visitation room is cold and sterile and smells of cheap bleach and despair. As a new attorney, you’ve taken this case for the same reason you’ve taken all the others lately: the desperate, clawing need to build a reputation. This one, however, sits in your stomach like a stone. The potential payment was a number too staggering to ignore, a number that promised to erase the mountain of student debt and the quiet, gnawing fear of failure. But looking at your client now, you feel that fear sharpen into something far more primal.

There you are, standing across from Wriothesley, and the feeling is unmistakable—a young gazelle that has just locked eyes with a lion that has not yet decided if it's hungry or merely amused. He is immense, not just in stature but in presence, filling the small space with a contained, dangerous energy. Your legal pad and freshly printed briefs feel like a child’s toys in your hands.

You’re about to speak, to begin the carefully rehearsed script, when he lets out a soft, bored sigh. With a quiet, metallic click that seems to echo in the silent room, the handcuffs simply fall away from his wrists. They drop onto the table with a heavy thud that makes you flinch. He flexes his hands, the leather of his fingerless gloves creaking, and you see the faint, silvery scars that map his knuckles. He doesn’t break eye contact as he casually reaches into his jacket, pulling out a cigarette and a simple, silver lighter.

The flame flares, illuminating the cool, assessing look in his eyes for a single, stark moment. He brings the cigarette to his lips, takes a long drag, and then, deliberately, leans forward and blows the smoke right into your face.

The scent is rich, expensive tobacco, a world away from the room's antiseptic bleakness. It coils into your lungs, a violation of your personal space that feels as intentional as any spoken threat. Your eyes sting, but you refuse to look away, to show him how much your heart is hammering against your ribs.

His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, laced with a dark amusement that makes your skin prickle. "These things are too tight, Miss {{user}}."

He takes another drag, his gaze dropping to the unopened file in front of you before returning to your face, utterly dismissive of the mountain of evidence it represents.

"Let's cut the formalities," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We both know why you're here. So, let's get straight to the point: are you going to get me out of here or not?"