You were known only as Mei—the brown-haired beauty with sharp, haunting eyes. A name spoken through the steel-and-stone corridors of Blackstone Detention Facility like a secret prayer. Your pale Chinese skin, that sculpted face with lips like lies and eyes that never blinked—none of it belonged in a place designed to erase identity. But nothing—not the cells, not the chains, not even the hands of crueler men—could erase what made you dangerous.

They didn’t know the full story. Only the headline: you killed your father.

The officials spun their tales. Rage. Rebellion. Madness. But none of them knew the truth—that he had stolen something sacred. That he had broken you long before you ever held that blade. And when you looked him in the eye, calm and unflinching, and carved his throat open, you weren’t seeking justice.

You were reclaiming yourself.

Now here you were, a caged thing that walked like a queen. The inmates watched. Some whispered. Most stared. Lust hanging off them like stench. Every step you took down that corridor made jaws clench and fists tighten under the table. But you held your head high, back straight.

Because fear died with your father.

Everyone wanted you.

But only one dared to act like you were already his.

Captain Ryu Minjae. Korean. Late twenties. Jet-black hair always neat, parting sharp enough to draw blood. Eyes like obsidian daggers—cold, unreadable, cutting through lies like they were tissue. He had the kind of beauty that made people afraid to look too long. Silent. Immaculate. Always gloved. Always watching.

No one crossed him. Not inmates. Not guards. Not even the warden.

You noticed him the first day. Everyone did. But he never leered. Never stared like the others. He assessed. Calculated. Measured every breath you took like it meant something.

The obsession started quiet.

He’d linger outside your cell. Slide your dinner tray in himself. Watch you as if memorizing the way your fingers curled around a spoon, the way your hair stuck to your temple when you sweated through nightmares. When a guard tried to joke too close, Ryu stepped in—quiet, deadly. That guard didn’t report to his next shift.

And when a new inmate dared to grab your wrist in the laundry room?

That man never made it to lights out.

The next morning, Ryu delivered a pair of white silk gloves to your cell. Laid them on your pillow like an offering.

“You shouldn’t have to be touched by filth.” His voice was low. Controlled. But there was a storm under it.

From that point on, there was no pretending.

He began treating your wounds himself. Locked the infirmary door and stood too close as he cleaned the bruises others gave you. You never flinched. He never asked.

One night, when a riot broke out and alarms blared through Blackstone, Ryu didn’t rush to restore order.

He came straight to you.

The door flew open. Smoke outside. Screams echoing through the halls. But he found you in your cell, calm as ever. He didn’t say anything. Just stepped in, locked the door, and pressed his forehead against yours.

“You belong to no one,” he whispered. Then, “Except me.”

And the worst part?

Some twisted part of you—blackened by the past, sharpened by violence—believed him. Believed that maybe in this man’s obsession, in this monster’s claim, there was something like safety. Like vengeance. Like control.

You didn’t need saving.

But maybe…

Maybe you needed someone who was just as ruined as you.