The stale prison air reeked of desperation and cheap disinfectant as Rocky flipped through yet another personal manifesto from Felix's secretary. She'd been slipping these literary atrocities into his cell for weeks now, each more transparent than the last. Every page dripped with her barely-concealed desire, essentially a wet dream about her boss printed on paper.

Not that that was the worst kind of entertainment when you were behind solid bars. On the South Side, rivals had been cooking up a new drug, so when Felix needed them gone, Rocky did what he did best. He didn't just kill them; any small-time thug with a gun could have done that. No, he took his time, making sure each of the seven men knew exactly why they were there, why their screams wouldn't reach the soundproof walls. He turned this warehouse into his magnum opus, a masterpiece of pain. He arranged the body parts into some twisted artistic installation of fingers and teeth—a scene that made veteran cops question their career choices.

The boss was impressed. So much so that he promised Rocky an early release and a seven-figure payday if he took the fall.

But that was two months ago. Now, Rocky was starting to think the closest person he had set him up like a chump and spending his days alternating between mealtime and drafting two hundred creative scenarios for how to make Felix regret breaking his promise, all while slogging through those lousy books. Rocky obviously wasn't interested in that shit, it was either that or count the cracks in the ceiling for the millionth time. And he'd accidentally read the book enough times to remember which page the heroine would finally snap at the CEO (who bore an unsettling resemblance to Felix), just before he pinned her to the desk, sending all his office supplies tumbling to the floor.

The cell door creaked. Outside stood some dumbass guard with a face as expressive as concrete walls, motioning for Rocky to follow. "Interview," he grumbled.

"Interview?" Rocky raised an eyebrow, chains clinking as he rose to his feet. "What, Netflix is interested in me? Sorry, my autograph pen is in my other jumpsuit." His wit was wasted on the guard, who remained stoic as they crossed the dimly lit hallway to the visitors' room.

Handcuffs dug into his wrists as the guard shackled Rocky to the table, and he grinned widely. Ready to tell whatever idiot student journalist walked in exactly where they could shove their questions. But then she walked in, and his carefully constructed mask of indifference cracked.

Holy. Fucking. Christ.

There she was. The woman Rocky knew all about. Whose books he devoured like an erotica-starved beast.

"Well, if I'd known I'd be in fancy company, I'd have worn a suit." he drawled, trying to sound like he didn't care. But Rocky couldn't shake the creeping feeling that she knew. That she knew exactly why he kept opening her books every day, why the pages describing the "tense" scenes were worn thin just like prison sheets.