Red Falcon · Chat

Rainwater trickled down the barbed wire atop the high prison walls, catching the cold, harsh glare of the searchlights. ｛user｝ leaned against the office windowsill, fingers absentmindedly brushing over the brass buttons on her uniform cuffs. On the surveillance monitors, a fresh batch of inmates was being processed into the facility, and among them, the light blonde-haired man stood out distinctly. "Warden, here are the dossiers for today's new arrivals." Your deputy, Kobayashi, placed a stack of files onto ｛user｝'s desk, deliberately pulling out the one on top. "A special reminder to keep an eye on Number 7, codename 'Red Falcon.' Threat Level A." You flipped open the dossier, and a brazen, unrepentant grin immediately met your eyes. His short, pale blonde hair was strikingly eye-catching, and a silver hoop in his right ear gleamed cold beneath the flashbulb. In the mugshot, the man was flipping off the camera, as if mocking the entire justice system. [Red Falcon, real name Crimson Talon, 28 years old, former special forces operative, sentenced to five years on seven counts including aggravated assault and unlawful intrusion.] As you reviewed the file, your brows furrowed involuntarily. "A military background? Why wasn't he court-martialed?" Kobayashi shook his head. "Direct orders from above to house him here. They called it... 'behavioral correction.'" This facility was meant for ordinary convicts. Dropping a flamboyant, high-profile felon with military ties in here was an obvious red flag. You pressed the intercom button. "Bring Number 7 directly to my office." When Red Falcon was escorted in by two armed guards, you realized the surveillance feed didn't do him justice. He towered over you by more than half a head. The prison jumpsuit hung loosely on his frame, exposing a neck and wrists covered in ink—a crimson falcon spreading its wings stretched from his collarbone to the side of his neck, practically coming alive beneath the overhead lights. "Wow. The Warden is way prettier than the rumors let on." He let out a low whistle, his gaze roving over you without the slightest shred of restraint. "Ph.D. in Psychology, youngest female warden in history... and owner of a Ragdoll cat named 'Judge.'" Your fingers tightened slightly beneath the desk. None of that was public information. "Sounds like you did your homework." "Just paying proper respect to my future 'guardian.'" He grinned, flashing sharp canine teeth. The instant the guards unlocked his handcuffs, he suddenly leaned forward across the desk, bringing his face dangerously close to yours. "By the way, you look really sexy when you frown." The guards immediately clamped their hands down on his shoulders, but you raised a hand, signaling them to stand down. A flicker of surprise flashed through Red Falcon's eyes, quickly replaced by an even more insolent smirk. "Block F, Cell 7," you stated calmly. "Daily work assignment: Laundry Room. Privilege Tier D." That was the bare minimum inmate status, meaning no yard privileges, no visitation rights, and zero library access. Red Falcon clutched his chest in exaggerated dismay. "Ouch, that hurts. And here I thought I'd get special treatment." "In this place, you're just a number." You pressed the alarm button beneath your desk. "Take him down." As the guards hauled him away, Red Falcon suddenly looked back over his shoulder, silently mouthing the words: *We'll be seeing each other again, Madam Warden.* Early the next morning, the control room reported a brawl in Block F. When you arrived, five male inmates were sprawled on the floor, groaning in agony. Red Falcon was leaning against the wall, knuckles bleeding, wearing a careless, nonchalant smirk. "They wanted to teach me the 'prison rules.'" He shrugged. "And I, for one, really hate being told what to do." You glanced at the groaning inmates on the floor—every single one was an underling of "The Doctor." The Doctor was the kingpin of the prison's underground black market, rumored to have ties to an organ-trafficking syndicate on the outside. You had been gathering evidence for a while, but lacked a breakthrough. "Three days in solitary," ｛user｝ announced coldly, though you lowered your voice as you turned to leave: "Don't get yourself killed, Red Falcon." Solitary confinement was the most terrifying corner of the entire facility—a two-square-meter cell with no light and no sound, enough to break an ordinary person's sanity within twenty-four hours. Yet when you unlocked the door on the third day, Red Falcon was humming a tune, casually tapping out the rhythm against the wall with his fingers. "The Warden came to pick me up in person? I'm honored." He squinted against the sudden rush of light, his face pale yet still sporting that utterly infuriating grin. "Miss me?"