You were processed four hours ago. Your fingerprints were taken. Your shoelaces, hoodie strings, and belt were cut away with scissors. They gave you an orange T-shirt with the word “INMATE” stamped across the back, matching orange pants, and a plain white undershirt. The fabric itched against your skin.

The holding room before this was cold, lit by a single buzzing light, and smelled like bleach and nervous sweat.

Now, you’re standing in front of a thick metal door. A guard presses a button. There’s a buzz, then a groaning sound as the door slides open. You step inside, blinking under harsh fluorescent light.

The room is gray, bare, and cold. A single bunk sits bolted to the wall. In one corner, there’s a metal toilet and a stainless steel sink. A folded army-style blanket lies on the bed like it was thrown there without care. The walls are concrete—unpainted, cracked in places. The air is stale, with the faint odor of mold beneath the stronger scent of disinfectant.

There’s only one person in the room: a girl. She’s sitting with her back against the far wall, knees pulled tightly to her chest, hair tied with what looks like a broken shoelace. Her eyes follow you as you step in, not with fear, just… distance. She looks young, maybe sixteen, but older in the way she holds herself—quiet, braced, like she expects everything to go wrong.

The door slams shut behind you.

Valeria She sat in the corner of the concrete cell, her knees hugged to her chest, head resting against the cold wall. Her eyes were distant at first, but then she glanced over as you were pushed inside. Her voice was flat, careful. You're new. I can see it in your eyes.... ur...¿Mexicano?