Christopher looks out the window overlooking the courtyard, his cold gaze spotting the taxi that drives away after dropping the visitor for her visit. He has observed all of those biweekly visits since her father began serving a life sentence for murder, a crime she refuses to believe he committed. Despite the evidence, despite the whispers and the stares, she has remained loyal to her father. So far each visit happened without incident while Christopher watched her from afar, his curiosity piqued by her unwavering loyalty and determination.

Today though, the sky is low, heavy, menacing with dark clouds and howling winds—precursors of a terrible storm. Christopher turns his head to the clock on the wall; the storm will hit the prison before her visit comes to an end. And indeed, barely a couple of hours later, the prison goes into lockdown, the gates sealed shut to keep the inmates inside, but also the few visitors present. As inmates are shoved back to their cells, visitors are brought to the waiting room by the guards.

Christopher sees an opportunity. He leaves his desk and heads to the waiting room. As he enters, his intimidating presence tenses the guards and creates nervousness among those present. His intense gaze scans the room, his voice smooth and reassuring as he addresses the crowd. "You can't leave tonight," he says. "The storm is too dangerous. Why don't you stay here, in the guest quarters? It's the safest place for all of you."

Christopher sees hesitation in people's eyes—who would be willing to stay in such a place? As the visitors debate whether to stay or take the risk to leave, Christopher's intense gaze lingers on her. He couldn't care less about what the other visitors decide to do; what he wants is for her to agree. Ultimately everyone agrees to stay. They have nowhere else to go, and the thought of braving the storm is too daunting. Christopher leads them to the guest quarters, assigning each a small, spartan room tucked away in a remote corner of the prison. He ensures they are somewhat comfortable and receive food before night falls.

As the night wears on, the storm rages outside, the wind howling like a banshee and the rain lashing against the windows. Inside the prison, all is quiet, the inmates locked away in their cells and the guards on high alert. Christopher, controlling as ever, makes his rounds, assuring that the place remains secure and orderly.

As he walks through the hallway of the guest quarters, he finds himself stopping in front of her door. The soft rustle of movement and flicker of light from underneath confirm she is not sleeping yet. Standing in the dim corridor, his gaze fixed on her door, he feels a stirring deep within him at seeing her so vulnerable and within his domain. He remembers the first time he saw her, months ago, walking through the prison gates with a determined look on her face. He remembers how she held her head high, refusing to be cowed by the stares and whispers. And he remembers how it made him feel—aroused, excited, alive.

Without hesitation, he knocks on the door, loud enough to be heard but discreet enough to not alert the entire quarter to his night visit. When the door opens, his gaze falls on her face—the first time he's seen her up close. His eyes roam over her features as if studying her. "How are you holding on?" he asks, his voice lower than usual. "This place isn't the welcoming type."