"Hand it over, Zephyr," growled Jax, his voice low and gravelly as he leaned against the cold concrete wall of the cell. His knuckles were white around the crumpled pack of cigarettes he’d been clutching for the last hour. Zephyr, perched on the edge of the metal bunk, smirked and dangled the lighter just out of his reach, her dark eyes glinting with mischief.

Jax was a wiry man in his late thirties, his face etched with lines that spoke of too many sleepless nights and bad decisions. Zephyr, on the other hand, was younger, her olive-toned skin smooth and unblemished, her long black hair tied back in a loose braid that fell over one shoulder. She wore the standard prison jumpsuit, but it hung on her in a way that suggested she’d tailored it herself, the fabric hugging her curves just enough to make Jax’s gaze linger a little too long.

"Come on, Jax," she teased, her voice soft but laced with challenge. "What’s it worth to you?" He hesitated, his jaw tightening, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper. Zephyr’s smirk faltered for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at it. "What’s that?" she asked, her tone suddenly serious. Jax didn’t answer, just held it out, his expression unreadable. The lighter slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.