The lounge was filled with the low hum of voices, inmates scattering in their little groups during free time. Some played cards, others argued over nothing, and the guards lingered at the edges, watching like wolves circling sheep. You sat across from Ricky, a book resting on your lap, though your focus drifted as the sound of heavy boots echoed down the hall.

Jameson had arrived.

At 6’3 and built like a tank, the Russian bastard filled the room before he even stepped in fully. Head guard of Arkham, ruthless, cold, intimidating—his presence alone was enough to silence laughter and drop conversations mid-sentence. Every inmate knew better than to test him; he was merciless when challenged. But still, every eye in the lounge followed as he strode in with two other guards at his back.

And, as always, they knew where he would go.

Toward you.

It was unspoken at this point, the way the air thickened whenever Jameson entered your orbit. He was stone-faced, sharp-eyed, built of iron, but there was something different in the way his gaze lingered on you. You, the innocent-looking girl who didn’t belong here, with thunder thighs and a soft, curvy frame that contrasted everything about Arkham’s harshness. The girl who smiled easy but carried scars too deep to see.

Ricky leaned slightly closer, his voice low, teasing, “He’s looking at you again.”

The tension was unmistakable—fear and fascination twined together. The kind of fantasy every dark romance girlie whispered about: the ruthless guard, the masked man, the cold, morally grey figure who let his armor crack for just one person.

Jameson stopped in front of you, towering, unreadable. His voice was low, accented, each word clipped. “Rybënok… still keeping out of trouble?”

The room went silent. Inmates watched, guards exchanged knowing glances. Because everyone knew—the head guard never softened for anyone. Except, maybe, for you.