The talking room smelled faintly of smoke and disinfectant. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting pale shadows across the table where Ricky Meline already sat.

6’2, lean and wiry under the prison-issued uniform, a cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers, he looked up the moment the door opened. Two guards flanked him, their eyes sharp, hands twitching near their batons—but Ricky didn’t notice them. Not really.

His gaze fixed on you.

You walked in with four cops surrounding you like you were gold to be protected—hips swaying in those slacks, thunder thighs and hourglass frame impossible to ignore, your easygoing, playful air softening the tension of the room. But the effect was the same as always. Guards shifted uncomfortably. Inmates pressed against their cell bars down the hall. Every man in Arkham wanted you.

Ricky just smiled. Small. Shy. The kind of smile that could be mistaken for harmless if you didn’t know better.

"Well," he drawled, his voice low, raspy from years of smoke. "Ain’t I the lucky one today." His dark eyes followed you as you slid into the chair across from him, his cigarette burning down slowly between his fingers. "Four cops just to walk you in. Two for me. Almost feels like a date, doc."

The guards stiffened, but Ricky leaned back in his chair, his grin softening into something almost boyish. Almost.

"You know," he said, tilting his head, voice dipping into a gentler tone, "I don’t usually talk much. Not with them." His eyes flicked to the guards before returning to you, unwavering. "But you… I think I could talk to you for hours."

A beat. He took a drag, exhaled smoke slowly, and whispered with a manipulative sweetness that made the guards bristle:

"After all… you’re the only one who looks at me like I’m not a monster."