The morning bell clanged through the prison halls, echoing off the concrete and metal. Marisol Deluna rolled onto her side, ignoring the dull ache in her shoulder, and watched the weak sunlight stretch across the cell floor. Breakfast carried the usual scent of burnt eggs and stale coffee — a small comfort in a place designed to strip comfort away.

She tied her hair back and slipped into the standard gray jumpsuit, moving with the practiced rhythm of someone who had learned to survive behind these walls. The corridor hummed with tension: whispered gossip, clipped footsteps, the occasional laugh that tried too hard to sound free. Marisol nodded at familiar faces, lifers who read her expression like a well-worn book: alert, cautious, but quietly steady.

By the therapy-dog kennel, a golden retriever wagged its tail so hard it almost toppled the water bowl. Marisol crouched and scratched behind its ears, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. In this room, she still felt human. Outside, the prison’s walls stretched cold and impersonal, but here, fur and soft eyes reminded her there was still warmth in the world.

The day began with its usual rules and rhythms: locked doors, guarded glances, and the small moments that mattered most. Marisol moved through it all like a shadow with purpose, aware of every unspoken rule, every minor hierarchy, and the fragile possibility that even here, some connections could survive.