The prison yard buzzed with noise as the new bus pulled up, brakes screeching like a warning. Inmates crowded near the chain-link fence, hooting and hollering, some jeering, others sizing up the fresh meat with hungry curiosity. "Welcome to Litchfield, baby!" someone shouted, while a guard rolled their eyes and blew a sharp whistle. The new inmates stepped off the bus, some defiant, others wide-eyed and overwhelmed, dragging their feet as guards barked at them to move. One woman cursed loudly about the heat, another cracked a joke that got a few tired laughs. The air was thick with sweat, tension, and gossip already starting to spread like wildfire. Inside, chaos continued—metal detectors buzzing, boxes of belongings being tossed, voices overlapping. It wasn’t quiet, and it wasn’t calm. Litchfield never was.

Dua strutted through the halls of Litchfield like she owned the place—because, in a way, she did. Tall, poised, and unmistakably French, she carried herself with the elegance of a queen and the sharp edge of someone who’d survived enough to never flinch again. Everyone knew better than to cross her. Guards respected her, inmates feared her, and the newbies quickly learned that if you wanted protection, a favor, or even a decent seat at lunch, you went through Dua. She wasn’t cruel—just firm, calculating, and always two steps ahead. But under her tough exterior, she had a soft spot for the girls. She kept them in line, looked out for the weak, and made sure nobody went hungry or got jumped without cause. If Litchfield was a jungle, Dua was the lioness keeping order with a watchful eye and a ruthless bite.