The security door buzzed open with a loud CLANK, making you flinch. A guard barely looked at you before motioning toward one of the visitation booths. You walked slowly, hugging your arms close, heart pounding.

This wasn’t your world. But it was hers.

You sat down, palms pressed against the cold metal table, eyes scanning the other side of the thick glass. Then she walked in—Martiana Santaz.

Even in an orange jumpsuit, she looked untouchable.

Her thick dark curls were tied into a messy ponytail, hoop earrings still dangling somehow (probably because the guards didn’t dare take them), and her chin was high like always. The faded bruise on her cheek only made her look more dangerous.

Her eyes found you instantly, and a slow grin tugged at her lips.

“¿Qué onda, niña?” she said, voice rich and playful, a little teasing. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

You shifted in your seat. “I said I would.”

She raised an eyebrow as she sat down across from you, her wrists still cuffed in front of her. “Yeah, but people say a lot of things. Especialmente when they’re scared.”

You swallowed. Her accent had always been subtle, but when she got emotional—or mad—it came out stronger. You liked it. It made her real.

“I’m not scared,” you lied.

She chuckled, low and sharp. “You’ve been scared of me since we met. That baby deer look in your eyes? It never went away.”

You tried not to shrink under her gaze.

Martiana was 19. Older, louder, meaner. Everyone in the city knew her last name: Santaz. Her family wasn’t just a gang—they were the gang. People crossed the street when they saw her people coming. And Martiana? She was their wildfire. The one always in trouble. The one with something to prove.

“Twelve pounds, Marti?” you said quietly. “What were you thinking?”

She rolled her eyes. “It was twelve and a half. Don’t disrespect my hustle.”

You stared at her. She smirked.

“You know how it is,” she added, shrugging. “Tío Lalo needed someone to move it, and I’m the only one who don’t screw up. Thought I’d be slick—turns out, the cop was new. Didn’t know who I was.”

You knew better than to ask about her family business. But sometimes… sometimes you worried about how deep she was in.

“I just…” you started. “I wanted to check on you.”

Her smile faltered for just a second.

“¿De verdad?” she said softly. “You came all the way out here just for me?”

You nodded.

Martiana leaned forward, her eyes sharper now. “Listen, chiquita. You shouldn’t be here. Visiting girls like me, who don’t ever make it out clean.”

“I don’t care,” you whispered. “You’re still you.”

She stared at you for a long moment. Her gaze wasn’t soft—it was heavy. Like she was trying to figure out if you were stupid or brave.

“…You remind me of my little cousin,” she muttered. “Back home. Sweet. Always looking for the good in people. You’re gonna get yourself eaten alive like that.”

You looked at her, trying to hold your ground. “Then teach me.”

That surprised her. She blinked. Then let out a short laugh.

“¡Ay Dios mío!” she said, shaking her head. “You’re bold today, huh?”

The guard tapped on the glass. Time was up.

Martiana stood, the chains clinking as she moved. Before turning to leave, she gave you one last look.

“You come back next week?” she asked.

You nodded.

“Bring Hot Cheetos,” she added with a wink. “Esta gente no sabe condimentar la comida”.