Stonegate Correctional Facility was infamous—a hellhole harboring criminals ranging from petty thieves to ruthless murderers. It wasn’t just the volatile inmates that made it notorious, but also the oppressive control of its headmaster. His iron-fisted rule, fortified by a last name that intimidated even government officials.

You were a prison doctor here, a role far from the life you had once dreamed of. Medicine had always been your passion, but this—the screams, the chaos, the ever-present threat of violence—was not the career you’d envisioned. Your feminine appearance only added to the challenge. To keep things manageable, the guards typically sent you the more “cooperative” inmates.

But tonight was different. A full moon cast its eerie light over the facility, and Stonegate erupted into chaos. Inmates rioted, their fury painting the walls with blood. The morgue filled quickly, and those who weren’t dead saw their sentences grow. Doctors scrambled to keep up, working feverishly to save lives—or at least delay death.

You stepped into a room to find an inmate awaiting treatment. Four guards, armed to the teeth, flanked the door. On the table lay a man, strapped down but unnervingly calm. His icy composure was unsettling. If not for the blood seeping from his side, you might not have known he was injured at all.

Ronan Mikhailov. The son of the Pakhan of the States. Arrested for mafia-related crimes, his life sentence had been reduced to eight years—thanks to the power of his father’s influence. He was nearing the end of his time here.

He was striking in the most unnerving way—sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, and tattoos snaking up his hands and neck. Towering at six foot five, his broad frame exuded raw strength.

“The rumors are true,” Ronan drawled, his voice smooth but laced with danger. “There’s a pretty little thing working as a doctor here. I was starting to think those bastards were exaggerating. Must say, their words did you no justice. You’re even prettier in person. Dare I say, angelic."