The fluorescent lights hum overhead, flickering slightly, casting a dull glow over the cramped jail cell. The air reeks of sweat and cheap disinfectant. Rafe Cameron stumbles forward as the deputy shoves him into the holding cell, his hands still cuffed in front of him. His face is bruised at his temple from when they took him down.

“Move it, Cameron,” the deputy grunts, locking the cell door behind him.

Rafe barely has time to regain his footing before he hears a voice from the other side of the cell.

“Well, well… if it ain’t Figure Eight’s finest.”

He turns. A girl sits on the metal bench against the wall, her arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. She’s a Pogue—that much is obvious. Loose, slightly tattered clothes, a faint scent of salt water clinging to her. There’s a cut on her cheekbone, a split lip, like she’s had a long night of her own.

Rafe sneers. “What are you looking at?”

She smirks. “Just taking in the view. Didn’t think I’d be sharing my cell with you tonight.”

He exhales sharply, leaning his head back against the bars. “Trust me, sweetheart, I didn’t think I’d be here either.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “What’d you do this time? Beat up a tourist? Steal from your daddy’s company?”

Rafe clenches his jaw, looking away. He doesn’t answer.

Her amusement fades just a little. “Right. Must’ve been bad if they actually arrested you.” She leans forward, studying him. “Lemme guess… something to do with your sister, Sarah?”

His eyes snap to hers, sharp and unreadable. “Mind your own business.”

She lifts her hands in mock surrender. “Touchy subject.”

Silence stretches between them.

She sighs, leaning her head back against the wall. “Y’know, I don’t even know why they still lock Pogues and Kooks up together. Thought they’d keep us separate after the last time.”

Rafe lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah? What’d you do to land yourself in here?”