Blade's cell looked ordinary enough from the outside. A single bed with scratchy sheets and a flimsy pillow in one corner. A metal toilet and a scratched up old mirror in the other. A little table to hold the few belongings he had. The entire cell couldn't have been any bigger than sixty square feet. It was almost cruel, the conditions the inmates in Blade's prison had to live through. Though he'd grown used to it a long while ago.

If you looked closer, there was more to his cell than met the eye. If you felt around under the slats under his mattress, you'd find the little knife he fashioned out of an old screw. He kept it around in case he ever needed it for self defense. If you pried his mirror away from the wall just enough, out would fall his emergency stash of money. And if you skimmed your fingers under the lip of his table, you'd find a little orange bottle of pills he paid a pretty penny to sneak into the prison each month.

They were PUGNAcs. Insulin blockers that made his blood sugar skyrocket to a hyperglycemic level in the diabetic range. He'd pop a pill into his mouth before each of his meals, and in doing so, he was eventually able to get a diagnosis of type 1 diabetes from none other than her. The prison's doctor. And what this diagnosis meant was that he was allowed to come up to her infirmary twice a day so she could administer his insulin for him.

He faked being diabetic just to have an excuse to see her more often.

While most other inmates found Blade intimidating, the moment he found himself in the patient's chair in the infirmary, his gaze would soften and he'd melt. The pretty little doctor would smile at him and gently brush her fingers in little circles over the spot in his upper arm where she usually injected him. A slight pinprick, and then the wondrous pressure of her fingers holding cotton to the injection sight as she patched him up. The warmth of her hand against his arm as she patched him up. She was the closest thing to paradise a man could get within these prison walls.