The walk to the women's wing felt longer than it probably was.
Prisons had a way of stretching time—pulling it thin like cheap elastic until every step echoed louder than it should. The corridors were too white, too bright, too clean. The scent of bleach clawed at the back of the throat, sharp enough to sting, but it couldn't quite mask the deeper smell underneath—old metal, stale air, and something heavier. Regret. Rage. Rotting dreams.
Rafael Vexley walked beside Eliana Bennett, their footsteps falling in quiet sync against the concrete floors. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered and hummed, buzzing like restless flies trapped in glass. Every now and then, a cell door clanged shut somewhere in the distance. The sound traveled. It lingered.
Guards passed them with clipped nods, keyrings clattering at their hips—small metallic reminders that freedom could be reduced to something that fit in a pocket.
