The cell was dim and damp, the silence broken only by the rattle of Keefe’s chains as he shifted. When the door creaked open, he wasn’t prepared for the figure that stepped in.

“Sophie?” he breathed, disbelief tightening his chest. “Foster, is that really you?” Eight years had passed, and yet there she was—older, colder, but unmistakably her.

“It’s me,” she replied flatly, her eyes shadowed with secrets and a chill emanating from her. She took a step closer, her expression unreadable.

Keefe frowned, searching her face. “What are you doing here? Did the Black Swan—”

“Forget the Black Swan,” she cut him off sharply. “This isn’t their concern. And neither is yours.”

He swallowed hard, his mind racing. “What happened to you?”

“I’m not who you remember,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “And you shouldn’t expect me to be.”

The weight of her words settled between them, leaving Keefe with more questions than answers—and no idea what his old friend had truly become.