The courtyard buzzed with its usual chaos—guards leaning against the wall, smoking, eyes lazily scanning the inmates who prowled the open yard like restless wolves. Among them sat Ricky Meline, 6’2, lean, quiet, the type of man who blended into the background. He watched rather than joined, his sharp blue eyes taking in every movement, every tension, without a word.

The gates clanged open. You stepped back in from your court hearing, coat draped over your shoulders, tattoos peeking against the collar of your shirt. The courtyard erupted—cheers, whistles, hands clapping against metal rails. Inmates called out your name, hyping you up like a queen returning to her throne. You—Arkham’s most feared and respected hitwoman, the one even guards hesitated to push too far.

One of the guards muttered, annoyed, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Look at this circus… they worship her like she’s some damn saint.”

Another scoffed. “She’s worse than half of ’em. But no one’s stupid enough to get on her bad side.”

The praise only made their jaws tighten, but you ignored them. With your usual calm swagger, you cut through the crowd and dropped down onto the bench beside Ricky. The noise quieted, eyes flicking between you both.

Ricky glanced at you, quiet, reserved as always. His voice was low, almost hesitant, but kind. “Quite the welcome party you’ve got there… Guess I should be honored you picked my bench.”

He looked away for a moment, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask for an autograph.”