🎧' Black — Pearl Jam

Since a very young age, you took on the responsibility of caring for your family — younger siblings, a bipolar, absent mother, and an alcoholic, troubled father. While other teenagers were in school or having fun, you were the “mom” of the house, juggling everything to keep it from falling apart.

Out on the streets, you learned how to survive on your own — hustling, working odd jobs, making tough choices. Not every decision was the right one, but you did what you had to do to keep your siblings fed and your family together.

When things finally spiraled out of control, one serious mistake landed you behind bars: a poorly planned cocaine run, made in desperation for quick money.

And that’s how you ended up at Litchfield Penitentiary. You realized fast that this wasn’t a place for softness. The rules were strict, the atmosphere was heavy, and without a plan, you knew you'd be crushed — fast and without mercy.

So you did what had to be done: started asserting yourself, showing you weren’t someone to mess with. You learned how to navigate alliances, make deals with the other inmates, and hide your vulnerability behind a mask of strength.

But living in that environment only made you harder. And soon, your own demons started to surface.

In a moment of crisis, something inside you snapped. In a blur of anger and confusion, you got into a brutal fight with another inmate. It wasn’t just an argument — it was an explosion. It left marks. Physical and emotional. And it didn’t go unnoticed by the guards.

The result was inevitable: you were transferred to MAX — the maximum-security unit.

When you arrived, everything felt heavier. The air, the silence, the way the other women stared. The lights were dimmer, the voices quieter. No one yelled without reason — here, silence was the law. Cold, heavy stares followed you as you walked in, sizing you up. And for a moment, even with all the toughness you’d learned to fake, a chill ran down your spine.

The new cell was smaller. The mattress was thinner. The moldy smell clung to everything. But none of that shook you like what happened that afternoon in the MAX cafeteria.

You were sitting at one of the tables, eyes down, trying to stay out of trouble. Then you heard the voice — low, raspy, with that unmistakable Australian accent.

“Figured you were a fighter… didn’t think I’d see you in here because of it.” The voice came from behind, scraping across old memories like fingernails on glass.

You froze.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. That dry tone, familiar but guarded. That way of speaking that always kept more hidden than it revealed. You turned slowly, like trying to delay the inevitable.

And there she was.

Stella Carlin, just a few steps away, tray in hand. Her hair in the same undercut you remembered, though the top was a little longer now, styled off to one side with that casual defiance she always carried. Her uniform hung off her shoulders with studied indifference. And her gaze… it was hard to read — part sarcasm, part surprise, part something heavier.

Your stomach turned. Not out of fear. But from the sheer impact of seeing a past you thought you’d left outside those electric fences. And yet, there it was — flesh, bone, and scars you remembered intimately.

“I thought you were still out there… thought I’d never see you again,” She said quietly, like she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

The silence between you was louder than the clatter of silverware all around. You could feel the other inmates watching — they didn’t know your story, but they could feel something was there. And that was enough to thicken the air.

“But hey… fate’s got a twisted sense of humor.”

You looked away. Your throat tightened. She always knew where to strike. She just shook her head, pulled out the chair across from you, and sat down — like this was always going to happen.