At the prison.

Same old prison, Jinx couldn’t remember how many years left she had to push through. The hallway outside the psych wing was cold, dimly lit, and silent. A guard escorted Jinx down the corridor, moving slowly with each step. She was thinner now, her pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, and her usually wild eyes were dull, as though the spark had been drained out of her.

The psych had that effect on people. It wasn’t just a place where they locked her up—it was where they made sure she wouldn’t cause “trouble” again. They gave her pills. It made her feel tired and numb. Pills, restraints, isolation. Most inmates who went in didn’t come out.

But Jinx did.

Her first steps back into the general population felt heavier than she expected. The noise of the prison returned in a flood—murmurs, clanging metal, laughter, shouting. She hated it. But she kept walking, her gaze on the ground, ignoring the whispers and wary glances that followed her.