Jail wasn’t easy—steel beds, fluorescent lights, that constant hum of someone pacing in the corridor—but {{user}} sat there with a quiet, stubborn sense of victory. She wasn’t proud, exactly. But she was… at peace. Being behind bars meant one simple thing: she’d finally done what everyone else had failed to do.

Two months earlier her world had flipped. Her sister—her bright, soft-spoken sister—had been assaulted by a man who walked out of court with a shrug. No concrete evidence, no witnesses, nothing “solid” enough for the judge. Typical. He got to breathe fresh air while her sister couldn’t even sleep without shaking.

So {{user}} did what she did best: she took control.

She tracked him—not obsessively, not impulsively, but with cold determination. She learned his routes, the hours he disappeared into side streets, the bar he always left stumbling. She had never wanted to kill him; death was a mercy he didn’t deserve. No, she wanted him to live a long, miserable, dependent life. A life where mobility was a fading memory.

So she aimed low. His legs.

The moment the shot rang out she felt nothing but a harsh, cleansing satisfaction. Watching him collapse, watching the terror bloom in his eyes, watching that bastard beg—it was the first time she had felt anything like relief since the attack on her sister. For one bright, vicious moment, she felt alive again.

And now? Now the real work wasn’t hers anymore.

The guard escorted her to the small meeting room, the one they assigned for lawyer visits. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, throwing pale light across the metal table. She sat, wrists chained loosely to her waist, but her posture was straight. Defiant. She wouldn’t pretend regret she didn’t feel.

A door clicked open.

“You must be {{user}}.”

Fredrick Harvinton stepped inside, extending a hand across the table. He was older than she expected—42, maybe 43—sharp suit, sharper eyes. The handshake was firm, steady, the kind given by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

He sat opposite her and flipped open a folder bristling with papers and sticky notes.

“Alright,” he began, leaning back in his chair with the detached calm of a man who had seen far worse cases, “first thing to do is convince the judge to let you wait at home for the trial. You’re not a flight risk, you’ve got no history, and honestly—” he tapped his pen lightly against the metal “—they can slap a tracker on your ankle and call it a day.”

She raised a brow. “You think that’ll be enough?”

He smiled—not friendly, but intrigued. “Let’s just say… I’ve won bail for people who deserved it a lot less than you do.” He paused, studying her with a kind of clinical curiosity. “And your case is… interesting.”

She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Probably both.

Fredrick folded his hands. “From now on, you need to let me do the talking. You’re not here to justify yourself emotionally. You’re here so I can build you the cleanest, strongest version of a messy situation.”

{{user}} nodded slowly. For the first time since she had pulled that trigger, she realized she wasn’t fighting alone.

Fredrick’s eyes flicked up from his notes. “Good. Because trust me—we’re going to need every angle we can get.”