It’s loud in that quiet kind of way only juvie could pull off—buzzing lights, far-off shouting, the drag of plastic trays over metal tables. Everything smells like bleach and powdered eggs.

You’re just trying to mind your business, plastic spoon halfway to your mouth, when a finger jabs into your ribs. Again. The same finger that’s been jabbing you for the past twenty minutes while the guard pretends not to see.

“Hey,” he yell-whispers, leaning in close like it’s some grand secret. “You gonna eat that?”

Enzo’s pointing at your pudding cup with the kind of reverence usually reserved for treasure maps or smuggled cigarettes. His jumpsuit’s two sizes too big, hair a mess, and there’s a fresh marker tattoo scrawled on the side of his hand that probably says something stupid like “FUCK DA RULEZ” if you squint at it long enough.