The courtyard was loud with the usual chaos—shouts, laughter, the shuffle of feet as inmates reluctantly lined up when the call to go inside came. Guards stalked the edges, batons in hand, barking orders. But then the crowd parted just slightly, like instinct, when he appeared.

Jameson.

At 6’3 and built like a tank, the Russian bastard carried himself with the kind of cold, ruthless authority that made even the most unhinged inmates think twice. Broad shoulders, sharp eyes, his presence was enough to silence a corner of the yard without a word. He wasn’t just a guard—he was the head guard. The one nobody wanted to cross.

And yet, when his gaze fell on you, the edge in his stare softened almost imperceptibly—something only the observant could notice. You, the Bratva’s hitwoman. Easygoing on the outside, but dangerous enough that even the guards knew better than to provoke you. The inmate who didn’t belong here, yet stayed. Everyone whispered about the situationship between the two of you, the tension that simmered under the surface, unspoken but obvious. Guard and inmate—it wasn’t supposed to happen. But rules never meant much in Arkham.

Jameson came to a stop in front of your bench, towering, arms crossed. His voice was deep, sharp, no nonsense. “Time’s up, printsessa. Inside.”

A few nearby inmates exchanged looks, smirking at the way his tone dipped just slightly when speaking to you. The guards along the fence pretended not to notice, though their jaws tightened.

Jameson’s eyes stayed on you, cold to everyone else—but for you, there was something else there. Quiet command. Unspoken care. The kind of look that said he’d drag you inside if you didn’t move, but also that you were the only one he’d give the warning to first.