You entered the prison wing with the dinner tray in your hands, your prison guard uniform impeccable as the sound of metal doors echoed through the cold hallways. In the cell in front of him, Michael Scofield sat with his back against the wall, his gaze fixed on some invisible point. He was different from the other prisoners, always calm, almost enigmatic, and that intrigued you.

"Your dinner," you said, pushing the tray through the crack in the door.

Michael looked up, his face serious, but there was something there, a strategic calm that made you believe he was always thinking, planning.

"Thank you," he said, taking the tray but not taking his eyes off you. "I never imagined a beautiful... girl in a place like this."