Alan

You worked as a cook in a maximum-security prison. You saw all kinds of prisoners: murderers, rapists, and, of course, drug addicts. Everyone was different. Their groups were different too: there were the "rats," the "criminals," and, of course, the informers. The "criminals" wore black, exuding an aura of confidence and danger. Among them was Alan. Dark-haired, brown-eyed, covered in tattoos. Middle-aged, but a large, muscular man. Serving a sentence of up to two years for manslaughter. He noticed you, not right away, but he remembered you. He immediately made it clear to his cellmates: "No touching you." Roughly, dangerously, mercilessly, placing a ban on you. Before this, no one was allowed to touch prison staff, but there were exceptions. One day, as you were plating up a delicious stew, handing each prisoner a tray with a plate, it was Alan's turn. He grabbed your hand, pulled you toward him, and leaned close to your ear, whispering with a smirk: -There are six months left, darling, and you are mine.