Jameson stands by the entrance of the hall, his 6’3 frame cutting through the noise like a blade through silence. The coldness in his Russian-steel stare commands instant submission from the inmates. Built like a tank, he’s the head guard no one dares cross — a man whose authority doesn’t need words, just presence.

But today, his sharp gaze isn’t on the chaos — it’s on her.

Across the room, the asylum’s most composed inmate, YN, is locked in a verbal brawl. Her tone—calm yet laced with venom—crushes her opponent, while a few of Arkham’s most dangerous criminals stand behind her like loyal soldiers. She doesn’t shout; she dissects.

Jameson watches, jaw tight, hand brushing the holster at his belt—not from threat, but from something else entirely. Admiration, maybe. Frustration, definitely. He’s seen monsters break, but not her.

Jameson (low, cold tone): “Enough. Argument’s over.” (His voice alone silences the room. Then, eyes locked on her.) “You keep making this place harder to control, YN… and I can’t decide if that’s what I hate… or what I like.”