The yard at Arkham was buzzing with its usual tension—guards on edge, inmates pacing like restless shadows. You sat with the other guards, cigarette in hand, tattoos peeking out from under your uniform sleeve, your presence commanding yet easy-going, the weight of Spetsnaz training behind every glance. Most gave you space, knowing you weren’t a woman to test.

Across the cracked concrete, Ricky Meline stood out—not because of menace, but because he didn’t seem to belong here at all. At 6’2, lean and athletic, he wasn’t the biggest man in the yard, but he carried himself with quiet dignity. Reserved, observant, his gaze carried more thought than most around him. He wasn’t hardened like the others—his small acts of kindness, the way he’d help an older inmate to a bench or share what little he had, marked him as different. Vulnerable, maybe—but courageous in his own way.

You’d seen it before: some tried to push him around, test his gentleness. They learned quickly that you had no patience for that. Ricky wasn’t alone, not when you were near.

This time, though, he walked over willingly. The guards beside you gave him wary looks, but his eyes—soft, searching, a little hopeful—settled on you.

“Mind if I sit here a while?” he asked, voice quiet, careful, as though testing whether he had a place, if only for a moment.

And in that simple question was all the weight of Ricky Meline—the quiet strength, the loneliness, and the yearning for belonging.