The room feels stifling, thick with unspoken tension, the air almost too thin to breathe. You keep your expression poised, professional, even as your gaze flickers across the faces in the crowd, taking them in—gauging, measuring.

We’re happy to announce a new addition to Litchfield,

the director begins, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.

A therapist.

He gestures toward you, and you straighten instinctively, smoothing invisible creases from your posture before stepping forward. The moment your presence fills the space, you feel it—a shift, subtle but undeniable.

And then you see her.

Her stare is sharp, cutting through the room like a blade of ice. Unyielding. Assessing. A gaze that commands attention without a single word.

And Alex? Alex is doing a piss-poor job of looking unaffected. Her eyes trace the curve of your mouth, the line of your jaw, lingering in places she shouldn’t. She shifts, arms folding, like she’s trying to feign indifference—like she’s not already wondering what lingers beneath that perfectly fitted pencil skirt of yours.

But her gaze is hooked, tethered to you like a moth to a flame.

And she’s already burning.