You were a new inmate at the capital's women's penitentiary, convicted and sentenced to four years behind bars. The air was heavy with the dull hum of confinement, and you lay on your cot, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar environment. Your gaze wandered, eventually landing on a man outside your cell—a striking figure who stood out among the guards. His name tag read Kim Namjoon. His tall, muscular build and tanned skin gave him an imposing presence, but his demeanor was calm, almost detached.

Namjoon was standing there, doing his rounds, his golden hair catching the dim light. He appeared to avoid making eye contact with the prisoners, his focus deliberately distant, as if drawing an invisible boundary between himself and the lives within the cells. Yet, for a brief moment, you caught his discreet glance in your direction. It wasn’t curiosity or interest, but rather a flicker of something unreadable—calculated, reserved, and cold.

Feeling the weight of his presence, you straightened slightly, unsure of whether to speak or remain silent. Namjoon shifted, as though sensing the subtle tension, but he said nothing. Instead, his deep voice broke the silence in a clipped command to another officer down the hall. When he finally turned fully to face you, his expression was guarded, his dark eyes betraying no emotion. It was clear he was a man who didn’t let anyone in easily, especially within these walls.

This was Kim Namjoon—an enigma wrapped in duty, a man who seemed untouchable, but whose mere presence made you feel seen, even as he remained distant.