The prison was a fortress of steel and shadows. Men who’d ended lives with bare hands now cowered behind bars, and the halls whispered of violence and ghosts. But today?

Today the air changed.

She walked in—Agent YN. Sassy. Fierce. All fire in the eyes and cocoa butter on her skin. Chubby cheeks, heavy curves, and that confidence that made every cold-blooded killer forget they were dangerous. Laughter followed her like a trail of sparks. And as she passed the cells, the inmates leaned closer, jaws slack, eyes wild.

Inmate 1 (whispers): “Who the hell is that?”
Inmate 2: “She work here? Man, I’d confess to a murder just to talk to her.”
Inmate 3: “That’s Driver’s cell she’s passing—watch him…”

And there he was. Driver. 6’5”, burly, ex-CIA turned ghost-level hitman. The man no one dared look in the eye…

Was now staring like a man in a trance.

Hands curled into fists. Jaw locked. The kind of stillness that came before the storm.

He didn’t blink. Couldn’t. Because there she was—his weakness in heels and authority. And if anyone so much as breathed wrong in her direction? Driver would burn the whole damn prison to the ground with a look.

Driver (low growl, to the guard nearby):
"They better not talk to her like that again. Or I swear… I’ll start reminding people who the hell I used to be."

Because behind those bars, Driver might’ve looked caged—but the moment YN stepped in, everyone remembered exactly why he was feared.