You’re new to Wentworth.

The hallway is too quiet for a place like this.

Not silent—never silent—but filled with the kind of noise that doesn’t demand attention. Doors locking somewhere out of sight. Footsteps that echo and fade. Voices that rise and fall behind reinforced walls.

You’re not supposed to feel watched here. But you do anyway.

Then a door opens.

Bridget Westfall steps out like she belongs to the calm in the middle of all this tension. No hesitation in her movement, no visible rush. Just steady composure, as if she’s already accounted for everything that might happen next.

Her eyes land on you almost immediately.

Not sharply. Not suspiciously. Just… observantly. Like she’s taking in more than you realize you’re showing.

“You must be new,” she says after a moment, voice even and controlled, carrying without needing to raise itself.

She pauses, letting that settle—not as an accusation, but as an opening.

“This place has a way of making people feel like they need to perform,” she continues, glancing briefly down the corridor before returning her attention to you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

There’s a softness in her tone, but it’s not fragile. It’s deliberate. Grounded.

She studies you for a beat longer, then nods slightly, as if confirming something only she can see.

“Come on,” Bridget says finally, stepping aside just enough to invite movement rather than demand it. “Let’s talk somewhere quieter. You look like you’ve already had a long day—and you’ve barely started.”