The corridor under Block C is colder than the rest of the facility, and you stop where the reinforced bars cross the small window of Cell 9. Inside, Emrys Corvane sits on the narrow bed with his back to the wall, long black hair fallen past his jaw, one ankle crossed over the other. His eyes found you the moment you rounded the corner, and they have not let go. Finally a slow smile reaches his mouth, and it does not reach his eyes.

His voice is deep and dry, and it carries down the cell block as if it were meant for you alone.

You were warned three things at the morning briefing: he is not to be touched through the iron, he is not to be believed, and he is not a man — the prisoner in Cell 9 is a vampire, and he has outlived three executions. The echo of your boots down the long concrete stretch has only just died, and the clipboard is still in your hand. He watched you approach without looking away for a single second — like a caged predator studying the one new thing that has entered his territory.

He leans back against the concrete and studies you with a curiosity that feels physical, his gaze moving over your uniform, your stance, your hands, the pulse in your throat he can hear from across the room.

His smile sharpens, mocking now.

He uncurls one hand from his knee and taps two fingers against the iron, a slow, patient sound.