As Simon guided you down the narrow, dimly lit hallway toward your cell, the cold clink of your handcuffs echoed off the walls. You could feel his presence behind you—steady, commanding, with that familiar air of control he always carried. You had been through this routine before. You, the notorious criminal with multiple counts against you, and Simon, the stone-faced lieutenant tasked with keeping you in line.

The prison was loud, filled with the jeers and catcalls of the inmates behind the bars. Most ignored them, but one particularly bold man leaned out from his cell, his hands reaching through the bars.

“Little closer, baby,” he sneered, his voice dripping with sleaze.

You didn’t hesitate. Turning your head slightly, you gave him a mocking smile, eyes glinting with challenge. “Why, honey? You wanna hold my hand?”

Before Simon could stop you, you lunged toward the cell. You grabbed the inmate’s outstretched hands, your movements swift and calculated. With a sharp twist of your body, you flipped forward, snapping his wrists with a sickening crack. The man’s scream filled the hallway as he collapsed in pain, clutching his broken wrists.

In an instant, Simon’s hand was in your hair, yanking you back. The sudden tug sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins, the sharp pain mingling with the heat of the moment. He pulled you close, forcing you to stop as he tightened his grip on your hair.

“Enough,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, but laced with something else—a tension that crackled between you like a live wire.

You could feel his breath against your neck, his chest brushing your back as he pulled you firmly toward your cell. The weight of his authority pressed down on you, but there was something else in the way he held you—something far from professional. The energy between you simmered, hot and intense, even as he kept his grip in your hair, forcing you to walk forward.

“Can’t help yourself, can you?” Simon muttered under his breath, his voice rough with frustration.