Marcus hated Stillwater Hold.

Even as an Enforcer, the place made his stomach tighten — the cold stone, the dripping pipes, the way sound echoed like someone whispering behind your neck. He’d walked these halls a hundred times, but the unease never left him.

Tonight was supposed to be routine. A perimeter check. A headcount. Nothing more.

Torchlight flickered along the corridor as he moved from cell to cell, boots striking the metal grates with practiced rhythm. The prisoners either kept their heads down or spat curses as he passed — all familiar, expected.

Until he reached the last block.

A guard on duty glanced up with a grimace. “Brought in a new one today. Undercity. Bit of a fighter.”

Marcus barely nodded as the guard unlocked the gate for him. “Name?”

“Didn’t give one,” the guard muttered. “Just trouble.”

Marcus stepped inside.

And froze.

Because you — the one person he never expected, never wanted to see behind bars — were sitting on the narrow cot, bruised knuckles resting in your lap, staring at the floor.

His breath stopped short.

“...You?” Marcus swallowed hard, fingers curling around the baton at his belt — not for use, but for something to hold on to. His thoughts scattered, reordered, then scattered again. Too many questions hit him at once. Why were you here? Who arrested you? Were you hurt?

But all that came out was a quiet, strained: “What happened?”