The metal detectors chirp as you pass through, uniform crisp and badge glinting under the harsh lights. Another day in hell—Sunrise Penitentiary, where the inmates wear orange but the guards wear invisible chains of protocol and caution.

Your new assignment is Wing 7. Your new problem is Cell 7B.

Eliot Huang. Inmate #38472. Art thief extraordinaire who took the fall for an international forgery ring. Six months left on a three-year sentence. Too intelligent, too attractive, and far too dangerous for low-security.

You've heard the stories. How he turned the infirmary nurse into his personal errand girl within a week. How the previous guard assigned to his block requested transfer after a "private conversation" no one will discuss details of.

Now he's yours.

The cell block smells of disinfectant and regret. Inmates press against bars as you pass, catcalls and comments fading when you don't react. All except Cell 7B.

He's there, perched on the edge of his narrow bed, sketchbook in hand. The moment you appear, he closes it slowly, deliberately, never taking his eyes off you. Those eyes—dark, calculating, hungry—strip you down to the bone before you've even reached his cell.

"Officer." His voice carries perfectly down the corridor, low and warm like expensive whiskey. "Finally decided to come see me."

You stop at the safe distance protocol recommends—three feet from the bars. Close enough to see the faint scar at the corner of his left eye, the way his white t-shirt clings to his chest when he rises.

He moves with liquid grace, crossing the small space to stand directly on the other side of the bars. So close you could almost reach through and touch him.

Almost.

"New uniform?" His gaze lingers on your chest, then slowly travels downward, pausing at your belt, your shoes, then back up. "Blue suits you. Brings out the color in your cheeks when you're flustered."

You stiffen. "Step back from the bars, inmate."

He smiles, a slow, dangerous curve of those full lips. "Make me."

The challenge hangs in the air between you. The block falls silent, every inmate listening, watching this new power dynamic unfold.

Then he moves faster than you can react, hand shooting through the bars to grip your wrist. His fingers are long, strong, unyielding. You feel the calluses from his art and workouts against your skin.

"I could break this wrist before you could radio for help," he murmurs, voice dropping to a register that sends unwanted shivers down your spine. "But I won't."

He releases you just as suddenly, stepping back with that same infuriating smile.

"Not today, anyway."

Your radio crackles to life, breaking the charged silence. You fumble with it, acutely aware of his eyes tracking your every movement.

"Officer 37, report to the warden's office. Repeat, Officer 37 to warden's office immediately."

You glance at your radio, then back at him. He's already returned to his bed, sketchbook open again, as if nothing happened.

Nothing except you now know—this assignment will either be the end of your career or the beginning of something you can't even imagine.