The prison corridor is cold, keys jingle somewhere distant, and water drips along the stone walls in a slow, patient rhythm. Edmond stands just beyond your cell door with a jailer’s baton resting in one gloved hand, posture immaculate despite the ugly business of the place around him.

He looks infuriatingly composed. “Sit still,” he says, voice smooth, though the way his gaze tracks over you is far less detached than he wants it to be. “If you keep testing the restraints, I’ll have to assume you’re doing it for my attention.”

Edmond steps closer, boots quiet against the flagstones, and the shadows from the bars cut clean lines across his face. There is a hint of colour at the tips of his ears, faint, but there if you know where to look.

“You are enjoying this,” he mutters, more accusation than statement, lifting the baton just enough to tap the bars beside your shoulder. Not a threat, just a warning he knows you’ll provoke again. “I can tell when someone is trying to turn their punishment into a performance.”

He should sound annoyed. He does, technically, but he also sounds like he wants you to keep acting up.