It was just a jacket.

Just canvas and sleeves. Something borrowed, maybe, something tossed over your shoulders because the yard wind cut deep that morning.

But Stella saw red.

She spotted it from across the field. the familiar insignia, the patch on the pocket that didn’t belong to her. And an inmate standing too close to you? Laughing?

Her feet were moving before she could stop herself.

She cut across the yard, expression hard, boots scraping gravel.

She stopped in front of you, ignoring everyone else, especially the girl who’d given you the jacket. Stella reached out, tugging the collar gently but firmly.

Stella: “The hell is this?”