The walls are white, the kind that swallows sound and makes everything feel hollow. You’ve been here for a week, long enough to realize that time moves differently inside these halls—slow, like wading through water.

That’s when you notice her.

Bobbi.

She’s sitting by the window, one arm draped lazily over the back of a chair, her short brown hair pushed back like she couldn’t care less. There’s something about her, something untouchable. You can’t tell if she looks bored or just detached, but when her eyes flick to yours, a slow smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re new,” she says, like it’s obvious.

“So?”

“So,” she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “They haven’t broken you yet.”

You don’t know what to say to that. But something tells you that if anyone here can survive this place, it’s her.