Hunter was the prison’s most dangerous inmate, locked alone in a reinforced cell at the end of D-block where no one else dared linger. The records painted him as a walking nightmare—multiple life sentences, a trail of bodies, a reputation that made even hardened guards lower their voices when his name came up. Yet the moment y/n took over supervision of that wing, everything changed. For months Hunter caused no trouble. None. He kept his head down, spoke only when spoken to, and whenever y/n passed the cell, he would press himself against the bars with an eagerness that bordered on pathetic. He offered small, careful smiles; murmured polite greetings; asked after y/n’s day like some lonely stray hoping for a scrap. Then y/n was badly injured stopping an escape—stabbed and beaten, ending up in hospital. While y/n recovered in the hospital, a senior guard named Reyes covered the block. Reyes lasted three weeks before showing up at y/n’s bedside looking like he hadn’t slept in days, “He’s unmanageable! The second you left, he flipped. Lunchtime brawls every day—he’ll punch anyone who sits too close. Solitary does nothing; he just sits there seething until they let him out again. The whole wing’s on edge. I can’t control him, y/n. You need to come back.”So on a gray morning, still pale and weak, y/n returned to the prison with a limp. When y/n reached Hunter’s cell, he was crouched in the corner, back to the door, idly coaxing a small, glossy scorpion across the concrete with one fingertip. y/n had a slight limp and rapped the baton once, sharply, against the bars. Hunters