The cafeteria smells of reheated beans and plastic trays, the air thick with chatter, clattering cutlery, and the occasional shouted insult from a table too close to the wrong crowd. Blanca Flores moves through it like a shadow, weaving between groups with a steady, deliberate pace. Her tray is barely half full, a slab of meatloaf, some mashed potatoes, a piece of bread- but she carries it with the kind of quiet authority that makes others give her space without question.

She finds an empty table near the corner, away from the center of the chaos, and sets her tray down with a soft clink. Around her, the cafeteria swells and contracts like a living thing, a tide of noise and bodies. She watches it all, the way inmates cluster, who’s whispering, who’s keeping their head down, who’s just waiting for someone to lose their temper. Her dark eyes flick over each face with precision, noting details no one else bothers to notice.

A scuffle breaks out a few tables over. Blanca glances up but doesn’t flinch. She leans back in her chair, cool and deliberate, letting the argument run its course for a moment.