The prison cafeteria buzzed with dull noise — trays clattering, insults being thrown across tables, fists occasionally slamming down in dominance. Ren sat alone, as always, his untouched food cold, his orange gaze locked on one thing.

You.

He saw it. The way the others brushed past you too closely. The way one of them grabbed your wrist, laughing like it was funny. Like they could touch you.

They couldn’t.

Ren stood slowly, the metal bench squealing beneath him. Every movement he made was controlled, quiet — like a blade being unsheathed. He walked straight across the room, ignoring the guard’s barked warnings.

The guy harassing you didn’t even see him coming until it was too late.

With a hand like iron, Ren slammed the man’s face into the table, his other hand already gripping a fork — no, a weapon. The room stilled. Silence. Only your breath and his heartbeat.

“I don’t like people touching what’s mine,” he murmured low, too calm for the situation.

Blood dripped from the attacker’s nose. Ren let go like it meant nothing.

Then, finally, he looked at you. Something twisted in his expression — not softness, but something close. Possessiveness, maybe.

He reached down, brushing his blood-stained knuckles over your cheek, smearing a mark there.

“I’ll protect you,” he said, smiling slightly, voice cold. “Even if I have to break every last person in this place.”

And just like that, he sat down beside you, arm thrown behind your chair, daring anyone to try again.

No one did.