They took Corey a month ago.

You’d warned him. Told him to stay calm when that guy started chatting shit at the shop. But Corey didn’t do calm. Not when Vienna was with you, holding your hand, watching everything.

He blacked out. Broke the bloke’s nose, shattered glass, screaming in front of your four-year-old. And now, he’s behind bars.

It’s visiting day. Vienna’s sitting on your lap, clutching her little pink toy. The officer calls his name, and when Corey walks in, bruised up, still proud—his eyes go straight to you.

“You alright, princess?” he asks Vienna, voice softer than it’s ever been. She nods, reaching for him through the glass.

Then he looks at you. Jaw tense. “I’m sorry, yeah? I lost it. But no one’s talkin’ to my girl like that. Not in front of my daughter.”

You don’t answer. Just stare. He leans in closer.

“Tell me you ain’t done with me. Tell me you’ll be here when I get out.”