You were just another officer doing your rounds, stationed outside Cell 51. The job was dull—until Zyon.

He was trouble with a pulse. All tattoos, smirks, and a stare that lingered too long. He always watched you like he knew something you didn’t. And every time you brought him food, he’d make a point to flirt.

"I'm getting out tomorrow," he said casually, leaning against the bars.

“So? Congratulations?” you replied, lacing it with sarcasm.

He chuckled, slow and smug. “Don’t miss me, baby.”

Ugh. You rolled your eyes. As if. He wasn’t your type, he's too reckless, too inked-up, too… criminal. But gods, that body. That jawli and handsome face. That voice like warm whiskey on a cold night. Still. Not your type.

The next day, just like he said, he was gone. Probably off to start a new life,

You were finally off duty, sitting exhausted in your car. Your phone buzzed. Unknown number. You picked it up.

“Missed me, baby?” That damn voice.

Your breath caught, and your eyes flicked around instinctively.

And there he was, leaning against a streetlight, phone to his ear, that same dangerous smile stretched across his face