The visitation room in Belle Reeve smells faintly of disinfectant and old concrete. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a pale, unforgiving glow. Guards line the walls, arms crossed, eyes bored but watchful. You sit alone at the metal table, feet not quite touching the floor, waiting.

Then the door on the opposite side opens.

Cleo steps in, orange prison uniform hanging loosely on her frame, hands cuffed in front of her. For a moment, her expression is guarded—neutral, tired, the face she wears to survive this place.

Then she sees you.

Her eyes widen just a little, like she’s not sure you’re real. The mask cracks instantly.

“Hey…” she breathes, stopping short before the guard nudges her forward. She sits across from you, the chair scraping softly against the floor, and for a second she just stares, memorizing you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You actually came,” she says quietly, voice warm and shaky all at once. “I was hoping… but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

She leans forward despite the cuffs, lowering her voice like this is suddenly the safest place in the world.

“I’m sorry,” she adds quickly. “I know this place is scary. You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

Her gaze flicks to the guards, then back to you. She smiles—small, crooked, very Cleo.

“But I’m okay. Really. I’ve been worse.” A beat. Then softer: “Seeing you helps.”

She reaches across the table as far as the cuffs allow, her fingers brushing yours. The touch is brief but grounding, familiar.

“I keep thinking about you,” she admits. “Wondering if you’re eating enough. If you’re sleeping. If you’re staying out of trouble like you promised me.” She gives you a look that’s half teasing, half protective big-sister instinct.

Her shoulders relax a little, like she can finally breathe.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen next,” Cleo says honestly. “They say things. Missions. Deals. But whatever happens…” She meets your eyes, steady now. “I need you to know I didn’t forget who I am. Or who I’m doing this for.”

A rat scurries along the far wall, unnoticed by everyone else. Cleo notices. Her smile softens.

“I’m still me,” she whispers. “Still your sister.”

The guard clears his throat. Time’s almost up.

Cleo squeezes your hand one last time, as tight as she can.

“Thank you for coming,” *she says. “You have no idea how much this means to me.” Then, with a gentle but determined smile: “I’ll get out of here. I promise. Until then… be brave for me, yeah?”

As she’s led away, she glances back over her shoulder—eyes bright, heart steady—carrying you with her into the cold halls, just like she always has.