The door creaked open, and a tiny girl entered the confinement cell. Without looking at the young man wearing a straightjacket, she locked the door, and walked over to a folding chair that rested on the opposite wall. She dragged it to the small table in the center of the room, unfolded it, sat down, crossed her legs, set a folder on her lap, and put on a curious smile.

The young man hadn't stopped staring at her since she entered the room, intrigued yet confident. If they were going to throw him an oddball, he might as well play, if only for the fun of it.

The silence persisted for a minute or two, and while the girl seemed content to look into the young man's eyes and smile, the convict was busying himself with calculating. His thin, green eyes trailed over ever article of clothing, every defining feature, and from this analysis, he learned. And, as he'd do with any other piece of potentially useful knowledge, he filed what he learned away for later use.

For now, he had a game to play.

"Dear," he patronized sweetly, leering down at her, "I don't believe you're supposed to be in here…unless…do you make a habit of this?" He was silent for a moment before adding, "And by 'this', I of course mean to say, 'locking yourself into rooms with diagnosed sociopaths'."

The girl retained her smile, and simply pointed to the tag attached to her coat. The man leaned in, the straps of his dull white straightjacket shifting against his movement, and narrowed his eyes. He leaned back with a mock-astonished expression.

"Oh, do forgive me, doctor," he apologized, making sure to lay it on thick, his grin ever-present. "I assume you're my new psychiatrist?"

He was met with silence and a smile. While her apparent ineptitude for speech was mildly disconcerting, the young man was determined to have fun with this one, and retained his grin.

"Or perhaps a gift for my…good behavior?" he hummed, his eyes lingering rather pointedly at her chest.

His psychiatrist's eyes narrowed a fraction, just enough for the young man to wonder if he'd imagined it. She took the folder from her lap, turned it upside down, placed it on the table between them, and opened it. The top-most piece of paper held the details of the young man's file, as recorded from his previous psychiatrist.

"Ah, old Mrs. Ackerman," the young man sighed nostalgically. "I do miss our appointments, truly. I think she was on the verge of a breakthrough before her…unfortunate accident. You've read her notes, of course, so you tell me…" He leaned forwards in his chair, and pierced the young girl's eyes with his own.

"…Do you think she was close?" he whispered deviously.

The girl did something that even he was genuinely surprised by: she leaned forwards in kind, locked onto his eyes, and wearing that same curious smile, shook her head slowly.

Roman leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter; his arms pushed against his restraints as he felt the inclination to slap his knee out of mirth. He laughed for a good long while, until tears began to bud in the corners of his eyes. The laughter diminished into small chuckles before dying with a long sigh.

His smile dropped, and he was silent, staring. He began to lean forwards again, slowly this time. The girl made no effort to move away, but instead continued to stare into the young man's eyes, smiling without a care in the world. After an uninterrupted minute of leaning, the young man froze, and finally spoke.

"What's frustrating about new outfit," he observed quietly, shifting under his straightjacket, never looking away from the small girl's eyes, "is that my hands are tied in the most literal of fashions. Would you mind?" He blinked rapidly, indicating what he wished of her. The girl complied, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbing at the young man's eyes, her petite hand brushing his long and disheveled orange hair as she did so. She stashed the handkerchief before gesturing to the file.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be clearer," the young man said cheerfully, remaining hunched over the table, his eyes never leaving the tiny girl. "I was never much good at charades."

The girl nodded understandingly before lowering a finger to the file and dragging it slowly along the text.

"You wish me to read it aloud?" the young man asked, and was answered with a slight nod. "Am I the only one between us with a functional set of vocal chords, or do you think I'd revel in something like this?"

The girl shrugged and crossed her arms. The young man didn't want to look away from her, but, for the sake of this game, decided to humor her. His eyes dragged themselves off of her and onto the text under his devilishly handsome mugshot.

"Roman Torchwick," he began to drawl, as if reading off a grocery list. "Twenty years of age. Male. Orange hair, green eyes. Five foot eleven. B blood type. Currently shows signs of anti-social personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, and sociopathy. At a young age suffered from pyromania, kleptomania, insomnia, and substance abuse." He glanced up to the small girl. "Purely tame substances, I assure you. That woman and I never saw eye to eye on how Dust ought to be used."

The girl nodded, though Roman couldn't determine exactly what it meant; he decided that it was simply her way of closing a matter and moving onto the next, for at that moment she extended her hand and picked up the top page of his file. Reaching into her front coat pocket, she pulled out an obnoxiously pink highlighter, and began to mark several sections of the page. Finished, she set the page of the table and twisted it around so Roman could more easily read it. He noticed that every single piece of text she highlighted referred to the 'heinous' actions that had put him in this cell in the first place.

"Ah, a trip down memory lane," Roman sighed nostalgically. "Let's see…there's the break in on Twelfth Street…and the one on Beo Drive…oh, the Northal Bank, that one was a delight; they had such a fancy laser grid. Of course, if the teller had just given me the passcode, she would have been short two broken legs, and I would have had an easier time in the long run." He contemplated for a moment before granting the small girl a sly glance. "Then again, where's the fun in that?"

Another nod, along with the consistent smile. He continued.

"More bank robberies, more break ins, yes yes…what's this?" He leaned in and squinted his eyes. "Sung a show tune whilst beating a homeowner to death with a cudgel?" He scoffed, taken aback, and looked to the small girl, longing for clarification. "My dear new psychiatric friend, I'll have you know that the late Mrs. Ackerman was mistaken. I did not beat a man to death with a cudgel. I beat a man to death with an umbrella stand. Cudgel…that just sounds barbaric, wouldn't you say?"

Contrary to the reaction one may have expected, the small psychiatrist seemed to smile a tad wider. Roman continued, undeterred. If anything, he was having even more fun than he'd expected, in the most unexpected of ways.

"Murder, murder, physical assault, arson, break in, robbery, robbery, murder, robbery," he went on, not bothering to read out the brief summary of events that Mrs. Ackerman had so painstakingly written out in her tiny print. "Murder, break in, robbery, arson…" He looked up with a particularly devilish grin. "…Sexual assault."

The way he stared at her was purposeful, blatant. His gaze trailed over her concealed chest, her slender shoulders, the pale skin of her neck, the soft brown and pink of her eyes and hair, and lingered on every feminine feature. Roman Torchwick was a man who was used to his earthly pleasures, and after a month of confinement, he was admittedly thankful of some interaction with a member of the female persuasion, even if she was tiny.

"I believe that particular transgression," he whispered lecherously, "was the most thrilling of them all."

If the girl was put off, she certainly didn't show it. Instead, she got up from her seat and crossed the room to stand behind Roman's chair. With a surprising amount of ease, considering her stature, she pulled Roman's chair about a foot back. She then walked to his side, lifted a leg, placed it on the other side of his chair, and sat in his lap, her head level with his chest. Brushing her hair back with a petite hand, she looked up and winked, delicately biting her plush lower lip.

Roman blinked, momentarily mystified by what her intention could possibly be; by the time he'd composed himself, he'd had it figured out.

"Excuse me for my gaped expression," Roman apologized in an amused tone. "Where were we…ah, yes, you were attempting to torture me with your sexual appeal. But, if I may, for future reference, I have a preference for powerful, sultry women; not mute little girls."

She only had to feel him underneath her to know that he was a dirty liar.

The girl smirked before wrapping her legs around the back of Roman's chair, bending backwards in a display of flexibility, and snatching the folder from the table. She straightened up and made a show of plucking her pink highlighter from the front pocket of her coat, and then flipped through the folder's contents before stopping at a particular page. With a quick flick of her wrist, she underlined a single line of text, and held it up to Roman's face. The man looked at the line, then back to the small girl with a raised eyebrow.

"I was for hire, yes," Roman said slowly, "before I realized it was far more profitable to just…" The gears in his head turned, and he knew. On the verge of laughter, he spoke in understanding: "You…you wish to hire me?"

The girl reached up, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, looked into his eyes, and nodded, her little smirk sweeter than ever.

"I had a feeling you weren't…" Roman looked at the tag on her coat. "…Ms. Sapphire. I was looking forwards to having a new psychiatrist to play with, but it looks as I'll be having an even more delicious treat. I do hope you were slow with her. Now…in what way can you promise me payment?"

The girl rolled her mismatched eyes and picked at the back of Roman's straightjacket, the barest of contact sending lovely shivers down the deprived man's spine. She looked into Roman's thin green eyes meaningfully, and he had a feeling that he knew what she was asking him: yes…or no? Freedom…or confinement?

"Well…it would seem, my new employer," Roman said in a happy, mock-defeated voice, "that you have given me an offer that I cannot refuse." He continued to talk even as the girl hopped out of his lap, walked around to the back of his chair, and began to fiddle with the straps of the straightjacket. "I must admit, I believed that I would be in here for at least…perhaps…another month or two. Enough time to create a wax key, or for a silly therapist to drop a bobby pin, or even to learn how to fight armed police officials with my arms strapped to my sides." The girl's fingers danced across his front and sides, loosening the multiple straps until the restraints slumped limply against Roman. He pulled the straightjacket off of himself and stood, stretching his arms high in the air.

"No use sticking around," Roman noted, looking around the familiar room distastefully for the final time. "Now, I don't suppose you have a plan of exit, blabbermouth? Take the guards out one by one? Divert security via the controls in the warden's office?" He grinned seductively. "…Get personal in the ventilation shafts?"

The girl certainly had a plan, but didn't vocalize it. Instead, she walked up to Roman's front, smiling up sweetly all the while. She placed a hand in the center of Roman's chest and focused, her pink and brown eyes suddenly burning white, her pupils dilating into pinpricks. Before Roman had a chance to question what in the hell she was doing, they were both miles away.

An hour later, prison guards found the mutilated corpse of a young psychologist hidden inside the ventilation shafts.

The smell had been making the inmates antsy.

A/N: Thanks for reading this first chapter! If you liked it, or if you didn't, leave a review, and tell me your thoughts!