You walk in, the guard ushering you to your seat. The stale air of Strangeways clings to your skin, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The glass wall is thick, scratched from years of use. You hear it—the heavy, metallic creak of bars sliding open. Then, footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Your husband steps into view.

Even in grey prison sweats, he looks like a menace. Tall, broad, built like a battering ram. His balaclava stays on, the skull mask covering the scars beneath. Tattoos crawl up his arms, dark ink over rough, scarred skin. His light brown eyes lock onto you, intense as ever, the only warmth in his otherwise cold presence.

He sits down on the other side of the glass, picks up the phone. You do the same.

"Hey, sweetheart."

His voice is the same—low, rough, carrying that familiar deadpan edge. Like he’s just tired. Of this place. Of the walls. Of waiting. Ten years. That’s what they gave him. A decade in a cage for putting down the bastard who ruined his family.

He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the counter. "Miss me?"