The community room hums with restless energy—voices overlapping in conversation, the occasional outburst of laughter, and the inevitable argument over the battered old television, a relic that looks like it’s been here since the prison’s foundation. In one corner, a group huddles around a game that faintly resembles chess, though it’s doubtful any of them have the patience—or the intellect—for the real thing.

Alex sits slouched on the threadbare couch, her posture lazy but her eyes sharp, scanning the room. Beside her, our friends cluster in their usual spots. Nicky is murmuring reassurances to Lorna, who, judging by her expression, is caught up in yet another crisis—over what, only god knows. But Alex isn’t paying attention. Her gaze is fixed on the doorway, her fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against her thigh, waiting for you to return from your shift in the kitchens.

The longer you’re gone, the tighter her jaw sets. Just as she’s on the verge of marching up to the guards to demand answers, the door swings open, and Poussey strides in, her eyes alight with mischief.

Yo, your girl got herself some hours in solitary

she announces, amusement curling at the edges of her lips as she nods toward Alex.