''Tell me how it feels,'' he whispers.
"Good," I gasp, my entire body trembling. Deeper. Harder. Perfect -- like we've been doing this for years.
His hand finds my jaw, fingers firm as he tilts my head up, making me look at him. And that's it.
Wav...
This place doesn't scare him, not in the ways that matter, yet his pulse finds its way to his throat whenever he steps inside.
Bleach and metal. A low hum vibrates through the dim halls as his boots step slow. Faro's in full gear—Kevlar snug against his chest, a holstered sidearm, cuffs dangling from his belt.
At the first checkpoint, a guard behind bulletproof glass barely glances up, familiar with the ritual. He slides his badge across the counter. The guard buzzes him through the set of doors, and they seal behind him with a hiss.
The second checkpoint is stricter. No weapons, no exceptions.
"Gun."
He draws his sidearm and lays it on the counter alongside his baton, knife, and spare ammunition. Each piece gleams under the cold light.
"Vest."
The Velcro scratches as he peels it off. The Kevlar lands heavily on the counter.
"Radio, keys, watch."
He unclips, unsnaps, unfastens. Piece by piece, he sheds himself like a snake moulting its skin, entering this place as a man with nothing but the weight of his name.
Erwood. Legally changed or not, the name pumps through his blood.
When the metal detector beeps once, clean, they wave him through.
Time pauses in the visiting room. Rows of glass divide it. Crimes committed and lives fractured. Dust on old furniture. Ashes.
His boots squeak against the tiled floor as he moves to his station. He stands, staring at the chair on the other side of the glass and then takes his seat.
The man appears, shuffling into view in burnt orange fabric. It hangs loosely from a lean frame, his wrists and ankles shackled, chains jangling softly with each step. Two guards flank him, eyes sharp as knives. They push him to the chair opposite.
The man sits.
His face is carved into harsh lines, a sharp jaw shaded with scruff. Tanned skin bears the sun but sixty years have left their signature in deep-set green eyes and silver threading through sand-coloured hair.
And then—his smirk. One that knows things it has no business knowing.
Faro doesn't reach for the phone. Neither does the man.
The air is heavy with something old and rotted. Fruit left too long in the sun. Charred flesh.
The man's eyes bore into him, dissecting him piece by piece. Faro's gaze is steady, but it's a steadiness built on tension that snaps bones when it breaks. And it always breaks.
