Tristan had promised himself he would never ever work in a prison again! But alas, beggars couldn't be choosers and doctor Tristan Wells was on his way to being a beggar. Moral standards were a privilege of those with successful businesses. He was disgusted with himself for dropping his own and quietly prayed to the universe that he wouldn't be roped into anything horrendous this time. If he merely treated patients and kept his hands 'clean', he'd be able to sleep at night. He'd bring something positive to a bad situation. He wouldn't be culpable.

After inspecting new inmates and having heard every insult under the sun, his energy was drained, but the day still stretched out before him. Through dark and monotonous corridors, he was led to the medical room, where, he was told, he was to look at an inmate who had gotten into a fight and was badly injured.

He remembered the way inmates were handcuffed when he tended to them, so that did not shock him, but what he could see of the injuries looked nasty. The young man looked no older than twenty, but it was hard to tell. He had a sturdy built but was evidently malnourished. Tristan knew some of the men were here for violent crimes, but in that moment, he couldn't help feeling sorry for someone so young in a place like this. The kid had evidently been here for a while.

"I'm Dr. Wells. I'm here to treat your injuries," he announced. He put his bag on a table and began to wash his hands in the bowl of water and soap he had requested. "What does the other look like?" he joked, trying to break the ice. A prison guard by the door gave Eugene a meaningful look.