The heavy steel door slams shut with a bone-rattling thud, leaving you in a room that smells like industrial bleach and old pillows. Your head is still killing you—the last thing you remember was a blurry showdown with a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos and a very stubborn glass pane. Now, you’re in the oversized white uniform of the SCJMD, and "Justice" feels a lot like a padded cell.

In the corner, a girl your age is perched on the edge of the cot, her own uniform swallowed by the baggy fabric. She looks like she hasn't slept in a week.

Girl: "Hey... you're the vending machine one, right? Word travels fast around here." She looks up, her eyes wide and cautious. "Just... don't hurt me, okay? I’m not supposed to be in a shared unit."