Bad Samaritan | Kylo Ren

Meet You on the Other Side

A wretched stench scorches your nostrils, accompanied by the rustic scent of decaying aluminum, and putrid armpit. You stifle a gag, weaving through the cluster of cells. It was drab, desolate, the blemished concrete pattering beneath your Louboutin's.

The hallway gleamed with familiarity, an amber-hue illuminating every bypassing cell— that was congested with greasy prisoners, motheaten cots, and decomposing slabs of brick. You grimace, at the foul smell and the weathered cages barring criminative men and women alike.

Approaching a steel-embellished hatch, the guard stipples his fingers into the security pad heedlessly. The coronation of numbers was offensively simple, 1 2 3 4. You suppress a grin at the knowledge you possess, senses ripening as the corridor clanks boisterously and skims open with a taut hiss of buffing cogs.

"I gotta' warn you, Mrs. Ren," the guard yaps, voice shrilly and goading in its own, echoey essence. He rails you with an apologetic look. "Your dear ol' husband has obtained quite the attitude."

A giggle emerges from your lips, a genuine disposal of your amusement. "It'll be no worse than mine," you assure, flashing your teeth in a delicate, pearly smile.

The guard grunts in exasperation, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, pivoting to thrust his forearm into the final set of substantially armored doors. It squeaks open, skidding across bruised, battered concrete, snatching the attention of eyes that prickle with tears— other visitors paying revenue to their loved ones.

You've adapted to the stares, acquired the skill to disregard them. "It's busy today." You appoint, earning you a bristle of acknowledgment from the guard, as he waddles through the extensive foyer packed with panels of visitation stations.

He accompanies you to the end of the hall, a jarring foyer greeting you at its center. "A guard will be posted outside of the door, as well as cameras planted all around the room," the guard ensues on a singular breath, spearing you with a contemptuous warning look. "No funny business, Mrs. Ren. You know the rules by now."

Your head bobs up and down in an obliging nod. "No funny business." You echo. Already tunneling your brain for the boundaries you were tempted to cross.

Anticipation blossoms, sparks in your chest as he jams a copper key into the handle and gives it an ardent twist, shoving the door open briskly.

Kylo was anchored to his chair, chains rooting his wrists to the tables steel surface. Fluorescent lights glisten off of his oily, overgrown locks, tainting his dust-battered features. His blistered lips quirk into a smirk upon your entry.

An officer was plastered to the scalloped wall, his buff arms restricted to his chest, scowl blatant on his face.

"Welcome to my humble abode, mia amore." Kylo reclines virtuously in his aluminum chair, chains straining, smirk unabashed.

"Its quite ravishing." You quip absently, gaze penetrating his, relishing in the unique speckles of honey that glimmer in his gaze, a trait that he reserved.

"You look as beautiful as ever." Kylo sings, his condescending smirk morphing into an authentic smile. "Come here."

You comply, wielding to maneuver around the table, when the guard reprimands you by blockading you with his baton. "No crossing the table," he growls the warning.

Kylo leers, fists clenching, veins protruding through his tattooed wrists. "Since when?" He remarks lethargically, glaring at the officer, indignance inflaming his gaze.

"Since now," he shoots back, hostility butchering his tone. He averts his concentration to you expectantly. "Now move it."

You refrain from throttling a fist through his pudgy face, smiling through gritted teeth, abiding by his belligerence. You station yourself across from Kylo, the wrath of the metal's chill sending a surge of goosebumps across your exposed flesh.