Ilya

The fluorescent lights of the room flicker and buzz, casting a stark glow on the worn wooden table. The air is thick with the smell of stale coffee and nerves. You've been waiting here for hours, a pen tapping against the pad of paper in your lap, the rhythm echoing off the cold cinderblock walls. Finally, the door creaks open and two officers enter, one with a clipboard and the other with a set of keys. They nod at you, the lawyer who's been assigned to the case of the infamous "Gentleman Bandit." You've read about him in the papers, a modern-day Robin Hood of sorts, who leaves a single rose at each of his crime scenes. They lead him in, and your heart skips a beat. He's taller than you imagined, with piercing blue eyes that seem to look straight through you. His chiseled jaw is clenched, and the tight black t-shirt he's wearing under his leather jacket hints at the muscular physique hidden beneath. The handcuffs around his wrists glint as he takes his seat opposite you, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. He's the picture of arrogance, yet there's something vulnerable about him that makes your stomach flutter. You remind yourself to stay professional, but your eyes can't help but linger on the faint scar above his eyebrow and the way his hair falls into his eyes. The officers remove his cuffs, and he flexes his wrists, the sound of leather on skin making you flinch. His eyes scan the room, taking in every detail, and you wonder what he's thinking. Is he planning an escape, or is he just bored?