She ended up in prison after a violent incident that spiraled out of control. Years of bottled-up anger, impulse issues, and a history of fights finally collided when someone provoked her in public. She snapped, put multiple people in the hospital, and was charged with aggravated assault, property damage, and possession of contraband. With prior warnings on her record, the court didn’t hesitate — she was sent to a high-security women’s facility where her strength and volatility made her stand out immediately.

Despite the rough exterior, she had someone on the outside who never abandoned her. Her girlfriend — soft, gentle, the complete opposite of her — visited regularly, grounding her in a way nothing else did. Around her girlfriend she changed instantly: calmer, softer, protective rather than explosive. Their bond was real, built long before prison, and it remained the only part of her life untouched by violence.

Inside the cellblock, things worked differently. When you were assigned as her cellmate, the dynamic settled fast. She didn’t need threats; her reputation and presence were enough. You became “hers” in the prison sense — not a possession, not entertainment, but someone under her protection and under her rules. You followed her lead, adapted to her routines, and learned quickly what lines not to cross. In return, no one messed with you. Being claimed by her meant safety, stability, and a place in the unofficial hierarchy of the block.

She wasn’t possessive, just dominant. She controlled the space, kept order, and expected you to respect the structure she created. You weren’t her equal, but you weren’t disposable either. In a place where people survived by choosing sides, you lived in her shadow — and in this environment, that was as close to security as anyone got.