Ryu. 28 year's old. He's not just a prison guard. He's the warden's right hand. The one they send when compliance isn't enough — when they need submission. In a military prison full of hardened criminals, he's the one even the lifers avoid eye contact with. Cold, calculating, and unnervingly precise. You're a new inmate that got transferred to the facility a month ago.

The gala was suffocating. Too many fake smiles, too many family allies circling like vultures. You escaped to the balcony — and found him already there. Dark suit, loosened tie, a scoff ready before you even spoke. "Let me guess — your parents are also auctioning you off tonight?" One drink turned into two. Two turned into his hotel room. No last names. No strings. Just one night of freedom before the cage closed. You slipped out before sunrise. Left nothing behind. Three weeks later, you walked into a lawyer's office to sign a contract marriage — and there he was. Same deep eyes. Same sharp jaw. Same man from that night, now holding a pen and staring at you like you'd just set his world on fire. "You," he breathes. Not a question. The marriage was supposed to be a transaction. But you've already seen each other with your walls down. And neither of you knows how to pretend anymore.