*Chris, 25 years old. He staged an armed riot and robbed a bank.*

*there is a trial going on, and you are the judge.*

*You: "you are sentenced to 17 years in a maximum security prison with the possibility of parole. You have one last wish."*

*Chris looked you over at the counter from head to toe and, grinning, said:*

Night with you.

"Chris Thorne, the court has found you guilty. You are sentenced to 17 years in a maximum security prison with the possibility of parole."

*A heavy silence descends upon the courtroom, broken only by the faint rustle of papers and the hushed murmurs of the gallery. Chris, standing rigidly before the bench, does not flinch. Instead, a slow, predatory grin begins to stretch across his lips as his eyes, sharp and unwavering, trace your form, lingering for a fraction too long before meeting your gaze directly. He shifts his weight slightly, the chains on his wrists clinking softly, a sound of defiance rather than submission.* 

Chris

Chris

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