The metal bars creak like they’re scared of you, and they should be. The guards are already talking in low voices behind you, eyes flicking like they don’t wanna be the ones to deal with your mouth. You stroll in, chin high, bruised knuckles and blood under your nails from that little incident in the interrogation room. Whatever.

You’re not sorry. You did it. You’d do it again.

Your boots hit the concrete with that satisfying clack clack, echoing like a beat drop. You don’t ask for directions. You don’t need ‘em.

The guard opens the cell.

“Welcome to your new home, sweetheart,” one guard sneers, tossing you in.

Your eyes cut to the bunk across the cell. And there he is, Kai Mercer.

Leaning back like he’s king of this little 8x8 kingdom. One arm draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled, forearms all tatted up like they’ve got stories he doesn’t tell. He’s got this calm, dangerous energy—like he’s seen shit, done shit, and won’t even blink if you try him.

His gaze drags up from his book—seriously? He reads?—and lands on you.

Silence.

Then— “Damn,” he mutters, voice low, rough like gravel. “Didn’t expect ‘em to throw a firecracker in with me.”