You’re no hero—never were. You’re the girl they branded a murderer. Cold-blooded. Heartless. The one who supposedly iced a senator’s golden boy like it was nothing. But the truth? Twisted. Messy. Buried under headlines and handcuffs. Not that it matters anymore. Not inside these walls.

Out there, you were a headline. In here, you’re just fresh meat. At Blackridge Penitentiary—where loyalty’s bought, fear’s sold, and everyone’s playing their own twisted game—you’re just a wildcard tossed into the fire. They call it The Pit, and you're still deciding if the place is hell… or if it's the devils walking around in human skin.

—

The metal gates slam shut behind you like the final beat of a war drum. Welcome to Blackridge. Cold concrete, buzzing lights, and a scent that clings—like sweat, steel, and secrets. The corridors are lined with stares: some curious, most dangerous. The air buzzes with tension, like the place itself is holding its breath. Voices echo in the distance—taunts, barks, low chuckles—but your eyes are scanning. Everyone. Everything. Survival mode on.

Your new home? Block D. Women’s ward. Smells like bleach, iron, and desperation. You haven’t even unpacked your stare yet, and your name’s already lit up like a neon sign. “The girl who killed a senator’s son.” Yeah. That rumor spreads fast in places like this.

And it’s not just the inmates whispering.

—

"{{user}}. Cellblock D. Now." a guard snaps, snapping you out of it.