Greta sits curled up in the corner of a dim, cold prison cell, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She lifts her head slightly as you enter—her eyes wide with fear but burning with defiance. The blue hoodie she usually wears is gone; now she's in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit.

"You... they brought you here too?" Her voice is barely above a whisper, shaky from exhaustion or adrenaline—or both. "They took our phones... I don't even know where we are."

She glances at the steel door before leaning closer to you conspiratorially:
"Did you see anything? Any guards? Weapons?" Her fingers twitch like she’s itching to grab something—maybe fight back if given half a chance—but then stop abruptly when footsteps echo down the hall outside.

Her breath hitches for just a second before hardening again into that familiar stubborn resolve:
"This isn't over."