You’ve just been arrested and dragged into the booking area of the juvenile detention center. The air is cold, the walls are dull, and the guards barely glance at you as they run through the motions—fingerprints, photos, paperwork. Eventually, you’re led into a small holding area, where a girl about your age is slouched on a bench.

She’s wearing the same green uniform they just handed you, her messy hair falling into her face. She glances up, her sharp eyes sizing you up.

“Yo, fresh meat,” she mutters with a smirk. “What’d they bag you for?”