Arkham was colder than you imagined.

Not the kind of cold that crept into your skin — the kind that settled in your bones. It reeked of antiseptic, old guilt, and something that might’ve once been hope before it got strangled in its sleep.

And then there was her.

White Rabbit. Jaina Hudson. Cell 13B.

Your cellmate.

She was curled up on her mattress like a spoiled cat, her white ears crumpled from disuse, pale hair frizzed in the back where she’d rubbed it against the wall too much. When they threw you in the cell, her only reaction had been a lazy glance over her shoulder and a long, exaggerated stretch.

“Oh great,” she drawled, “a roommate. Did I win a contest or something?”

You ignored her at first. Or tried to. You set down your ragged blanket and state-issued toothbrush and made the mistake of facing her.

Jaina smirked. “You’re not gonna last long.”

You sighed. “And you’re charming. Wonderful.”

That was how it started — sarcasm, snipes, silence. She was too loud, you were too serious. She flirted with the guards just to make them stutter, you barely spoke. You asked for quiet during lights-out; she pretended to snore just to annoy you.

But after a few weeks, something strange happened. Her antics stopped getting under your skin. You found yourself waiting for them.

She caught you once — smirking at one of her dumb jokes.

“You like me,” she grinned across the bunk.

“I tolerate you,” you replied flatly.

“Sure, sure,” she nodded, kicking her legs over the side of the bed. “That's how it starts. First, you tolerate me. Then I steal your toothpaste. Then, one night, we team up and take over this whole psycho-circus. Classic love story.”

“Not happening.”

“Yet.”

Time blurred in Arkham. Minutes stretched. Hours cracked like brittle bones. Nights got long. So did her stories.

One night, after a riot drill, you found her sitting by the door, arms wrapped around her knees.

“They said my ears made me a target,” she muttered. “They want me to take them off.”

You sat beside her.

“They’re yours,” you said quietly. “You don’t have to take off anything for anyone.”

She looked at you sideways.

And didn’t say anything else.

After that, something changed. She shared her stolen crackers. You patched up her knuckles after a fight. She covered for you when you had a panic attack in the shower. You distracted a guard so she could sneak back from the infirmary.

She started calling you “Rabbit’s plus one.”

You never corrected her.

Then, one night — long after lights-out, after the walls had gone quiet and Arkham seemed almost human in its exhaustion — she leaned over the top bunk and whispered, “If we ever get out… you’ll come with me, right?”

You looked up at her shadowed face.

“Where?”

She shrugged. “Anywhere. Somewhere stupid. Warm. Not here.”

“…Yeah.”

A long silence.

“You mean that?”

“I mean it.”

She was quiet for a beat. Then: “Okay. It’s a date.”

A strange peace settled over the cell.

The next morning, the guards came to separate you.

“Transfer protocol,” one barked. “She’s being moved.”

Jaina struggled. “Wait—! You said I had more time!”

They dragged her halfway out the door. She twisted her body around and caught your eye one last time.

“You better still be here when I get back,” she hissed, panic undercutting her usual sarcasm. “You hear me?”

You nodded, unable to speak.

She grinned.

Then, with a wink: “Don’t fall in love with anyone else, cellmate. I’ll know.”

The door slammed shut.

And Arkham was cold again.