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Between Sessions

Words:10k

Chapter Three

The days after the alliance in the cafe settled into a tense, watchful calm. Paige and Nika moved through their routines with a new, shared awareness, a silent communication passing between them across the yard and in the chow hall. KK, however, was a ghost. She and her crew kept their distance, their smug smiles replaced by sullen, watchful glares. It was the quiet before the storm, and Paige could feel the electricity in the air, a low-grade hum of impending violence.

The storm broke during afternoon work detail. A section of the prison's old laundry room needed to be reorganized, a tedious, mind-numbing task of sorting and stacking musty linens. It was a perfect place for an ambush. The room was large, cluttered with industrial-sized washers and dryers that rumbled and clanked, providing a constant cover of noise. Shelves towered to the ceiling, creating narrow, maze-like aisles and blind corners. It was a chaos generator, and KK knew it.

Paige was working with Nika and Aaliyah, their movements efficient as they folded sheets from a large cart. Sarah was there too, relegated to light duty, folding small towels on a low table, her bandaged hands moving slowly but deliberately. They were talking, their guard down for just a second, when the power to the entire wing cut out. The room was plunged into sudden, thick darkness, the rumbling of the machines dying into a deafening silence.

"Stay put," Nika's voice cut through the dark, sharp and commanding.

But it was too late. The emergency lights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows, and the room was no longer empty. KK and her crew had emerged from the aisles, blocking the exit. They weren't holding dumbbells this time. They were armed with metal pipes from a maintenance cart, their faces grim and determined. This wasn't a collection mission; it was a hit.

"Surprise, bitch," KK sneered, her eyes locked on Paige. "Thought you and your new friends could just take over? This is my prison."

Paige's heart hammered in her chest, but her face was a mask of cold fury. She grabbed a heavy metal laundry basket, holding it like a shield. Nika and Aaliyah immediately back-to-back with her, forming a triangle of defense.

"You're making a big mistake, KK," Nika warned, her voice low and dangerous.

"The only mistake I made was not doing this sooner," KK snarled, and with a flick of her wrist, her crew attacked.

It was chaos. The narrow aisles made it impossible to fight as a group. Aaliyah was a whirlwind, taking down two of KK's crew with brutal efficiency, but she was forced back into a corner, her movements restricted by the shelving. Nika was a blur of calculated strikes, but she was outnumbered, two of KK's girls working together to drive her back towards the humming dryers.

Paige was face-to-face with KK, the metal pipes clanging as they parried and struck. KK was strong, fueled by a jealous rage, and she was fighting dirty. She landed a glancing blow off Paige's shoulder, sending a jolt of pain down her arm. Paige stumbled back, and KK saw her opening. She lunged, her pipe raised for a final, devastating blow.

But Paige wasn't alone. Sarah, seeing Paige in trouble, launched herself from her chair, grabbing a heavy bag of detergent and swinging it with all her might. It caught KK in the side of the head, sending her stumbling. It was a desperate, brave move, but it left Sarah vulnerable. One of KK's crew, seeing an easy target, turned and lunged at her, grabbing her by her injured hands.

Sarah screamed, a raw, agonized cry of pain that cut through the clang of the fight.

"Sarah!" Paige roared, a white-hot rage flooding her senses. She forgot about KK, forgot about the fight, her only thought getting to Sarah. She moved to lunge forward, but the other two were on her, grabbing her arms, pinning her against a machine. She was trapped. She watched in horror as the girl advanced on Sarah, who was writhing on the floor, clutching her hands.

Suddenly, the main door to the laundry room slammed open. Dr. Fudd stood there, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock at the scene before her. She wasn't supposed to be here, but a guard had mentioned the work detail, and something, a gut feeling she couldn't explain, had drawn her to check on it.

"Stop!" she yelled, her voice ringing with an authority that surprised even herself. "Guards! This is a direct order! Stand down!"

For a moment, no one moved. They were all frozen in a tableau of violence, the doctor in her crisp office clothes an impossible apparition in the grimy, chaotic world of the laundry room.

KK, seeing her chance to escape, didn't hesitate. "Let's go!" she screamed, and she and her crew scrambled, dropping their pipes and fleeing through a side door, disappearing into the shadows of the prison.

The room was suddenly, eerily quiet, the only sound Sarah's pained sobs. Paige broke free from the loosened grip of her attackers, rushing to Sarah's side and gently taking her into her arms. "I got you, Rah," she whispered, her voice thick with a fury so cold it was almost calm. "I got you."

Dr. Fudd ran over, kneeling beside them. "Is she okay? What happened?"

Paige looked up, and her eyes were like ice. "They went after her hands," she said, her voice low and deadly. "They knew. They fucking knew."

Dr. Fudd looked from Sarah's bandaged, now-re-injured hands to the cold, hard fury in Paige's eyes. She saw the promise of retribution there, a vow that would not be broken. This wasn't about territory anymore. This wasn't about respect. This was personal. And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that this was just the beginning. Paige was going to burn this whole place down to get her revenge, and Dr. Fudd was the only one who might be able to stop her.

The pipes hit the floor before the guards did. The clang echoed against concrete and metal, sharp and accusing, a final, discordant note in a symphony of violence. KK and her crew had vanished through the side exit seconds earlier, swallowed by the maze of corridors just as the heavy boots of officers thundered down the hall, their shouts growing louder with each step.

"On the ground! Now!" The order came too late to matter, a hollow command in a room already stripped of its control.

Nika stood frozen near the dryers, her chest rising and falling in hard, sharp bursts, her eyes still hunting the shadows for an enemy that was already gone. Aaliyah leaned against a metal shelving unit, one hand pressed to her side, blood trickling from a split in her lip, a dark crimson stain against her skin. The emergency lights flickered overhead, casting the entire room in a sickly, pulsating amber glow that made the scene feel like something from a nightmare.

And on the floor, Sarah. Curled in on herself, a small, broken shape. The sound she was making wasn't screaming anymore. It was smaller than that. A ragged, hitching gasp that was somehow worse, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore through the heavy silence.

Paige dropped to her knees beside her before anyone could stop her, the concrete floor unforgiving through her thin pants. "I got you," she said, her voice low. Steady. Too steady. "I got you, Rah."

Sarah's hands were already swelling beneath the soaked gauze, the pristine white bandages torn and ragged where they'd been grabbed and twisted. A terrifying, angry red seeped through, staining the cotton, a vivid testament to the cruelty of the attack.

"They went for my hands," Sarah rasped, her voice a thin, reedy whisper of pain.

Paige's jaw tightened so hard a muscle jumped in her temple, a frantic, desperate pulse. "I know."

Dr. Fudd was beside them seconds later, her breath slightly uneven from the run down the hall, her professional composure a fragile shield against the raw brutality of the scene. She didn't look at Paige first. She looked at Sarah, her gaze softening with a clinical empathy. "Let me see," she said gently, her voice a balm in the harshness of the room.

Paige hesitated. Just a second. A flicker of territorial resistance, a primal instinct to protect what was hers. Then she shifted back, just enough, giving Azzi access to the damage.

Azzi peeled the gauze back carefully, her movements precise and practiced. The skin beneath was a mottled canvas of angry blisters and fresh abrasions, the old burns now inflamed and torn, a hundred times worse than before. Sarah sucked in a sharp, hissing breath, her body tensing against the renewed agony.

"We need medical," Azzi said immediately, her voice shedding its softness, becoming firm and commanding. "Now."

Two officers moved forward with a stretcher, the clatter of its metal legs a grating intrusion. One of them, a young officer with a face still rounding into manhood, put a firm hand on Paige's shoulder. "Back up."

Paige didn't move. She didn't even seem to hear him, her entire being focused on the wounded girl in front of her.

"Back up, Bueckers," the officer repeated, his voice tightening with impatience.

Paige's eyes lifted slowly, a deliberate, chilling motion. They weren't wild. They weren't frantic. They were cold. Empty. Like the surface of a frozen lake. "Take your hand off me," she said, her voice quiet, but it carried the weight of a threat that made the officer's own hand falter.

He hesitated, his training warring with a sudden, primal fear.

Azzi stood, placing herself between Paige and the officer. "It's fine," she said quietly, her tone a carefully measured calm. "Let her walk with her."

The officer looked between them, from the doctor's steady gaze to the terrifying stillness of the inmate before him.

Governor Daley's voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. "What the hell happened in my laundry room?" She strode in, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete, each step a punctuation mark of her authority. Her eyes swept the damage, a quick, cataloguing assessment: pipes on the floor, blood on the concrete, scattered linens, inmates shaken but alive. Her gaze landed, inevitably, on Paige kneeling beside Sarah. Of course.

"Another day, another demonstration of your leadership, Bueckers," Daley said, her voice dripping with a cool, dismissive sarcasm.

Paige didn't look up. She didn't take the bait. Her focus was absolute.

"They cut the power," Nika said flatly from across the room, her voice a low growl. "It was premeditated."

Daley ignored her completely, her eyes still fixed on Paige. "Lock this wing down," she ordered, her voice ringing with power. "Full confinement. I want names. I want statements. And I want whoever planned this in isolation by nightfall."

Two officers carefully lifted Sarah onto the stretcher. She whimpered, a small, helpless sound of pain that she tried to swallow, her body rigid with the effort of not crying out.

Paige stood slowly, her movements fluid and coiled, like a predator preparing to strike. "I'm going with her."

"No, you're not," Daley replied immediately, her voice final.

Paige stepped forward anyway, a single, defiant step. An officer moved instantly to block her path, his body a wall of uniform and muscle. The hallway felt smaller suddenly. Tight. The air thick, charged with the unspoken violence.

Azzi watched the shift happen in Paige's body, the subtle but terrifying transformation: the coiling of her muscles, the shortening of her breath, the way her eyes seemed to darken, losing all light. It was the calm before the explosion.

"Governor," Azzi said, her voice even and clear, cutting through the tension. "She'll escalate if you separate them right now. Sarah needs her calm. This needs to be calm."

Daley's eyes flicked to her, annoyed at the challenge, at the interruption of her authority. "She doesn't dictate my procedure."

"No," Azzi agreed, holding the Governor's gaze without flinching. "But you do dictate outcomes. And the outcome you're heading towards is a violent incident in this hallway. Is that what you want?"

A beat. A tense, silent standoff. Daley studied Paige, who was standing unnaturally still now. No yelling. No threats. Just a chilling, focused calculation. That was worse. That was a promise.

"Two minutes," Daley snapped, her voice tight with reluctant concession. "Then she goes back to her unit. Lockdown."

Paige didn't thank her. She didn't even acknowledge the Governor. She simply stepped beside the stretcher, her presence a silent, protective shield, and walked with it down the long, sterile corridor. Azzi followed at a distance, a silent observer to the grim procession.

Halfway there, Sarah's hand, limp and swollen, slipped off the side of the stretcher, dangling precariously over the edge. Reflex. Instinct. Azzi moved first, reaching out to gently adjust it, to place it back on the stretcher's surface. Paige moved at the same time, her own hand coming up to perform the exact same act of care. Their hands almost collided over Sarah's wrist, a near miss in the cold, fluorescent light.

They both stopped. Paused. A breath suspended between them, a moment of shared, unspoken purpose in the midst of the chaos. Azzi pulled back first, a subtle withdrawal, re-establishing the professional boundary. Rule intact.

Paige noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes flicked to Azzi's for just a second, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before she returned her gaze to Sarah.

They reached the medical wing. As the double doors swung open and officers guided the stretcher inside, Paige leaned down close to Sarah's ear, her lips just brushing the skin. "This isn't over," she whispered. Not loud. Not emotional. A promise. A vow.

Azzi heard it. She was close enough to catch the words, to feel the cold, absolute certainty in them. And for the first time since she arrived at Wentworth, she felt something cold and heavy settle in her stomach, a dread that had nothing to do with the violence she had just witnessed. This wasn't a territory dispute anymore. This wasn't about respect or business. This was war.

In the stark, sterile brightness of the medical wing, Sarah lay under the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights, her jaw tight as the nurse carefully cut away what was left of her bandages with a pair of blunt-tipped scissors. The damage was worse this time. So much worse. Blisters had ruptured, weeping a clear, serous fluid. Skin was torn in places, revealing the raw, pink tissue beneath. An angry, mottled red swelling was spreading across both hands, crawling up her wrists like a malevolent vine.

"Possible nerve involvement," the nurse muttered to another staff member over her shoulder, her voice a low, professional murmur that was somehow more terrifying than a shout.

Paige stood against the far wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a posture of rigid self-control. If she moved, she might break something. Or someone. She could feel the rage thrumming under her skin, a hot, violent current threatening to burst its banks. She focused on the cracks in the ceiling, the pattern of the tiles, anything to keep from looking at Sarah's hands, at the evidence of her failure.

Azzi stood on the other side of the room, observing both of them. She saw Paige's rigid posture, the barely contained fury, and she saw Sarah's pale, strained face, the pain etched around her eyes. She was a mediator in a warzone, her own heart a frantic drum against her ribs.

"Will she regain full function?" Paige asked, her voice flat, devoid of any inflection, as if she were asking about the weather.

The nurse hesitated, her eyes flicking to Paige's imposing figure against the wall. "It's too early to say with certainty. We'll have to wait for the swelling to go down, see how the nerves respond."

That was not the answer Paige wanted. It wasn't a yes. It was a maybe. A maybe was a death sentence.

Sarah caught Paige's eye, her own gaze pleading. "Don't," she whispered, her voice thin and reedy.

Paige stepped closer, her movements stiff, unnatural. "Don't what?"

"Don't make this bigger," Sarah said, her voice stronger now, a desperate command. "This is what she wants. For you to lose control."

Paige's jaw flexed, a muscle jumping in her cheek. "They made it bigger when they touched you, Rah. They crossed the line."

"And you'll cross it right back if you're not careful," Sarah shot back, her voice gaining a sliver of its old fire. "This isn't just about you and me anymore, P. This is about all of us. About Nika, about Aaliyah. About the deal you made with that doctor."

Azzi stepped in gently, her voice a soft intervention in the rising tension. "Paige." Her voice wasn't commanding. It was grounding. An anchor in the storm.

Paige looked at her, her eyes blazing, her breathing shallow, her pupils blown wide with a feral, predatory light. "You don't get to tell me to calm down," Paige said quietly, her voice a low, dangerous hum.

"I'm not," Azzi replied, her gaze steady, unwavering. She didn't flinch under the intensity of Paige's stare. "I'm asking you to choose. Choose your revenge, or choose your future. Choose the war, or choose the parole board. You can't have both. Not anymore."

A long, heavy silence settled over the room, thick with unspoken words and conflicting desires. Paige looked back at Sarah, at the pain and fear in her eyes, and then at Azzi, at the calm, challenging certainty in hers. The war in her own heart was written all over her face.

"Lockdown ends," she said softly, almost to herself, a decision solidifying in her mind. "Then we handle it."

Azzi heard that. Not revenge. Handle. Different. Still dangerous. But it was a crack. A sliver of reason in the wall of fury.

"Handling it doesn't mean burning the whole place down, Paige," Azzi pressed, her voice soft but firm. "It means being smart. It means using your head, not just your fists. It means thinking about Sarah, about what she needs right now. She needs you to be smart."

Paige's eyes narrowed, a flicker of her old defiance returning. "And what do you know about what she needs? What do you know about any of this? You stand there with your notepad and your calm voice, telling me to choose. You don't know the choices I've had to make."

"Then show me," Azzi said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Let me in. Let me help you. That's why I'm here. That's the deal."

Paige stared at her, a long, searching look. She saw the sincerity there, the unwavering belief in a possibility she herself had long since abandoned. She looked back at Sarah, who was watching her, a silent plea in her eyes. Finally, she nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion. "Fine," she said, the word torn from her. "We'll handle it. Your way. For now."

Azzi let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, a small, imperceptible relaxation of her shoulders. It wasn't a victory, not by a long shot. But it was a start. It was a choice. And in Wentworth, a choice was everything.

Behind them, the high, piercing wail of alarms began to sound down the corridor. Lockdown. And Paige Bueckers, standing alone in the hallway as the medical doors swung shut, did not look like a woman who had lost. She looked like someone who had just decided something. She looked like a storm that had finally found its direction.

The lights shifte, from the harsh, clinical white to a deep, warning amber that bathed the entire block in a sickly, pulsating glow. The announcement rolled through the speakers in a flat, automated tone, devoid of emotion, a machine's voice dictating their fate. "Unit lockdown. All inmates return to designated cells immediately."

The corridors filled with the sound of boots and keys, a rhythmic, percussive symphony of control. Doors slammed, one after another, the metallic clang a final, definitive punctuation mark. Paige walked back to her unit without resistance, her steps measured, her back straight. That unsettled everyone more than if she'd fought. A fight was predictable. This quiet, coiled stillness was not.

Nika fell into step beside her, a silent, supportive shadow, but she didn't speak until they were two doors away from Paige's cell, their voices low murmurs against the backdrop of the lockdown. "You're too calm," Nika muttered, her eyes scanning Paige's profile, looking for a crack, a sign.

Paige didn't look at her, her gaze fixed on the door to her cell, her own personal fortress. "I'm thinking."

"That's worse," Nika said, a grim certainty in her voice.

A guard, a burly man with a face like worn leather, shoved Paige lightly toward her cell. "Inside."

Paige stepped in without a word. The door clanged shut behind her, the sound echoing in the sudden silence of the block. Across the way, in other cells, whispers began almost instantly, a low, sibilant hum of speculation and fear. "She's going to retaliate." "KK's dead this time." "Rah's hands are finished, I heard the nurse say..."

Paige sat on the edge of her bunk, her posture unnervingly still. Not pacing. Not punching the concrete walls in a fit of rage. Not strategizing out loud, her voice a low murmur of plans and counter-plans. Just sitting. Her hands rested on her thighs, her fingers curled slightly, but relaxed. She was a statue carved from ice, and Nika watched from across the block, a growing sense of unease settling in her gut. That silence meant something was forming. And when Paige Bueckers formed something, it didn't miss.

***

Governor Daley stood behind her imposing oak desk like a general reviewing a battlefield strewn with casualties. Security reports, medical updates, and inmate profiles were scattered across its polished surface, a chaotic mosaic of the previous day's violence. The air in her office was thick with the scent of expensive coffee and barely suppressed fury. Dr. Fudd stood opposite her, perfectly still, a calm island in a sea of turmoil.

"This is escalation, Daley snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. She picked up a glossy photo of the laundry room, pipes on the floor, a smear of blood on the concrete. "Metal pipes? A coordinated blackout? This wasn't a spontaneous brawl. This was an ambush."

"Yes," Azzi replied, her voice even and measured, a stark contrast to the Governor's barely contained rage. "Which means this was planned. Deliberately."

"And Bueckers is at the center of it," Daley stated, her eyes narrowing as she tossed the photo back onto the desk. It slid across the polished wood and stopped at the edge. "It always comes back to her."

"No," Azzi said, her tone firm but respectful. "She was the target. There's a difference. The target of the attack, and the target of the setup. KK wanted to neutralize her, to make her look weak in front of the entire population."

Daley's eyes sharpened, her gaze piercing, trying to find the crack in Azzi's composure. "You're getting attached, Doctor. I can hear it in your voice. You're making excuses for her."

"I'm assessing accurately," Azzi countered, taking a small step forward. "Paige Bueckers is many things. She's impulsive, violent, and has a complete disregard for authority. But she's not stupid. A planned, multi-person attack with a blackout? That's messy. That's loud. That's not her style. Her style is personal. Direct. This had KK's fingerprints all over it, brute force and a complete lack of subtlety."

Daley walked around her desk, her heels clicking sharply on the floor, closing the distance between them. She stopped just a few feet from Azzi, her presence a physical force. "You want her stable? Fine. You want your little experiment to work? Fine. But I'm telling you now, if she retaliates for this, if she so much as looks at one of KK's crew sideways, I will bury her in isolation so deep they'll forget she exists. I'll make an example out of her."

"And if you isolate her now," Azzi countered, her voice rising slightly with a conviction that surprised even herself, "you guarantee retaliation. You'll be proving to her, and to everyone else in this prison, that the system is rigged. That there's no justice, only punishment. You'll be taking away the one thing she's holding onto, the possibility of a fair shot. You'll be pushing her directly into the corner you claim you want to avoid."

Daley stared at her, a long, silent appraisal. The office was quiet, the only sound the hum of the air conditioning. "You think she listens to you?" Daley finally asked, her voice a low, skeptical murmur. "You think a few counseling sessions have given you some kind of magical hold over her?"

Azzi paused, choosing her words with the care of a bomb disposal expert. "Not yet," she admitted, a flicker of vulnerability in her honesty. "But she's starting to. She's starting to see that there's another way. She stood in that medical wing and she chose. She chose to handle it smart, not just hard. That's progress. That's a foundation."

Daley scoffed, a short, dismissive sound. "A foundation built on sand. You're a fool if you think you can tame her, Doctor. She won't be your project. She'll be your mistake. And when she inevitably blows up in your face, I won't just be burying her. I'll be burying your career right alongside her."

Azzi didn't flinch. She met Daley's hard, cynical gaze with one of her own, one that was filled not with naivete, but with a stubborn, unwavering belief. "With all due respect, Governor, you see a problem to be managed. I see a person to be understood. You see a mistake waiting to happen. I see potential waiting to be unlocked. Paige Bueckers is in this prison because she made terrible choices, yes. But she's also a product of a system that failed her long before she ever got here. She's a survivor. She's resilient. And she's loyal to a fault. Those aren't just character flaws. They're strengths. They're the very things that can save her, if someone is willing to show her how to use them."

Daley stared at her, her expression unreadable. She saw the fire in Azzi's eyes, the unwavering conviction, and for a moment, she wasn't looking at a psychiatrist. She was looking at a rival. A believer.

"Fine," Daley said, turning away and walking back to her desk, the conversation clearly over in her mind. "You have your leash. But it's a short one. And when she chokes on it, don't come crying to me."

Azzi stood her ground for a moment longer, her heart pounding in her chest. She had won the battle, but she knew the war was far from over. She had bought Paige time, a precious, fragile commodity. And now, she had to make sure Paige didn't waste it.

***

The amber lights of lockdown had been a constant, oppressive presence for forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours of stale air, of whispers crawling through the vents, of the relentless, low-grade hum of confinement. Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, they flickered off, replaced by the harsh, unforgiving white of a normal day. The announcement was brief, impersonal. "Lockdown concluded. Inmates may proceed to scheduled activities."

The first thing Paige did was go to medical.

She didn't run. She didn't shove anyone out of her way. She walked with a purpose that was a physical force, a current in the stream of inmates shuffling towards the chow hall. Nika and Aaliyah fell in behind her, a silent, formidable escort. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their presence was a statement, a promise of solidarity that was more powerful than any words.

The medical wing was quiet, the antiseptic smell a familiar assault on her senses. A nurse at the desk looked up, her expression weary but professional. She saw Paige, saw the two flanking her, and a flicker of something, fear, maybe, or just weary resignation cross her face.

"Sarah Strong," Paige said, her voice flat. It wasn't a question.

The nurse nodded, gesturing down the hall. "Room three. She's awake."

Paige pushed the door open without knocking. Sarah was propped up in bed, looking smaller than she ever had, her hands swaddled in fresh, thick white bandages that seemed to swallow her whole. The skin of her face was pale, almost translucent, and there were dark, bruised-looking shadows under her eyes. But when she saw Paige, a faint, tired smile touched her lips.

"Hey, P," she whispered, her voice raspy.

Paige was at her side in two long strides, her movements losing their rigid tension, replaced by a gentle, careful grace. She didn't touch the bandaged hands. She just stood there, her eyes drinking in the sight of her friend, alive. "Hey, Rah," she said, her own voice softer than it had been in days. "How you feeling?"

"Like I wrestled a washing machine and lost," Sarah said, a ghost of her usual humor in her voice. "They're keeping me doped up. Feels like I'm floating."

"Good," Paige said, a genuine flicker of relief in her chest. "You deserve to float for a while."

She pulled up a chair, the metal scraping softly against the linoleum floor. Nika and Aaliyah remained near the door, silent sentinels, giving them space but making their presence known.

"Did they talk to you?" Paige asked, her voice dropping lower. "The guards?"

Sarah nodded, her gaze drifting to the window. "Yeah. Came in this morning. Asked me what happened. I told them the lights went out and KK's crew jumped us. That's all they're getting from me."

Paige nodded slowly. "Good. Don't give them anything else. Let them do their jobs."

"You been good?" Sarah asked, her eyes searching Paige's face. "Stayed out of trouble?"

Paige's jaw tightened, just for a second. "I've been thinking," she said, which wasn't an answer, but was the truth.

"Thinking's good," Sarah said, a knowing look in her eyes. "Better than swinging. What did you and the doctor talk about?"

Paige looked away, towards the wall, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features. "She made me choose," she admitted, the words feeling foreign on her tongue.

"Choose what?"

"Revenge," Paige said, her voice flat. "Or getting out of here."

Sarah was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the steady beep of a monitor in the next room. "And what'd you choose?"

Paige looked back at her, her eyes clear, a new, hard-won clarity in their depths. "I'm choosing you, Rah," she said, her voice a low, steady vow. "I'm choosing to get you out of here. I'm choosing to get me out of here. The rest... the rest can wait."

A single tear escaped from the corner of Sarah's eye, tracing a slow path through the fine lines of her fatigue. She couldn't wipe it away, and the helplessness of it was a fresh, sharp pain. Paige saw it, and without a word, she reached out with a gentle finger and wiped the tear away herself.

"Don't you go getting soft on me now, Bueckers," Sarah whispered, a watery smile on her face.

Paige managed a small, genuine smile in return. "Never," she said. "But I'm done letting that bitch dictate my life. We're gonna handle this. And we're gonna do it smart."

She sat there for a long time, just watching Sarah breathe, a steady, reassuring rhythm. The rage was still there, a cold, hard knot deep inside her, but it was contained now. Banked. It wasn't a wild fire anymore. It was a forge, and she was going to use its heat to build something new. Something stronger. And for the first time in a long time, she knew exactly what she was going to do.

***

The yard had the uneasy quiet of a prison pretending everything was normal. Lockdown had lifted twenty-four hours ago. Too fast. Too neat. It felt like a bandage slapped over a festering wound, a superficial fix that did nothing to address the rot underneath. Women clustered in small groups, their conversations muted, their eyes constantly scanning, darting from face to face. Guards paced the perimeter with tighter rotations, their hands resting closer to their batons, their knuckles white. The air carried tension like static before a lightning strike, a heavy, oppressive weight that made it hard to breathe.

The visit to medical had been a necessary ritual. Paige, Nika, and Aaliyah had walked together, a silent, united front, their presence a clear message to anyone who might be watching. They had sat with Sarah for the allotted thirty minutes, the air thick with the smell of antiseptic and Sarah's quiet, pained breaths. They spoke for a while until Sarah’s meds started to kick in, she was doped up on painkillers, her eyes glassy, but she was lucid enough to squeeze Paige's hand with her good one, a weak but firm gesture of solidarity. "Be smart, P," she had whispered, her voice a thin thread. "Don't let them win." Paige had just nodded, her promise a heavy, unspoken weight in the room. Now, back in the open air of the yard, that promise felt like a lead lining in her gut.

Paige leaned against the outer wall of the yard, the rough concrete a solid, grounding presence at her back. Her arms were folded, her posture deceptively relaxed, but every fiber of her being was alert, a coiled spring ready to release. Nika stood ten feet away, ostensibly doing bicep curls with a pair of dumbbells, but her eyes, hidden behind a curtain of sweat-dampened hair, kept flicking towards Paige, a silent, watchful guardian.

Across the yard, KK laughed too loudly, a sharp, grating sound that cut through the hushed murmurs. She was trying to reclaim her space, to project an image of unshaken confidence. Two of her crew flanked her, their postures a little less certain than before, their eyes darting nervously, but loyal enough to play their parts. KK's eyes flicked toward Paige once, twice, a deliberate, challenging gesture.

Paige didn't look back. She didn't even flinch. She kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, on the high, imposing walls that surrounded them, a world away. That bothered KK more than open hostility, more than a returned glare. It was a dismissal, a statement of utter irrelevance, and it was eating KK alive.

"See?" KK said to her crew, gesturing casually with a chin lift. "She ain't doing shit. Scared little bitch."

She pushed off from the bench and crossed toward the center of the yard, her swagger a little too forced, her shoulders a little too tight. She was putting on a show, and everyone was watching.

And that's when it happened. Not from Paige's direction. Not from Nika's. It came from behind the bleachers, a blind spot everyone forgot about until it was too late.

Kayleigh Heckel stepped out. Kayleigh, quiet, overlooked, a ghost in the system who was doing a long stretch for aggravated assault. She had been there for years, a background character in the endless drama of prison life. But KK had forgotten her. Everyone had forgotten her. Kayleigh hadn't. She had lost product when KK hijacked a supply route months back. Lost protection. Lost face. Lost the small, fragile economy she had built to survive her sentence. She had lost everything.

The movement was fast. Not flashy. A simple, brutal economy of motion. A sharpened toothbrush, melted down and honed to a vicious point, held low, concealed in the palm of her hand. She moved with a purpose that was chilling in its directness, a straight line towards KK's exposed side.

KK didn't even register it at first. She was too busy preening, too focused on her audience. Then her breath caught in her throat, a sharp, hitching gasp. Her hand dropped to her side, a reflexive gesture of confusion. When she pulled it back, it was slick, dark, and wet.

"Oh" she started to say, the sound a pathetic, dying thing. She staggered, her legs turning to water beneath her.

The yard exploded. "Code Black! Code Black in the yard!" a guard screamed into his radio, his voice high with panic.

Guards rushed forward, a sea of blue uniforms converging on the epicenter of the violence. KK dropped to her knees, her face a mask of shock and dawning horror, rage and pain mixing in a terrifying cocktail.

Kayleigh didn't run. She stood there, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with a mixture of terror and triumphant release. "You thought I forgot?" she spat, her voice a raw, guttural snarl. "You cost me everything. Everything!"

Two officers tackled her to the ground, their bodies a brutal, efficient takedown. KK collapsed fully now, clutching her side, a low, animalistic moan escaping her lips.

Paige pushed off the wall slowly. Not running. Not reacting. Just watching. Her face was a mask of unreadable calm, her eyes taking in every detail, every movement, every consequence.

Nika stepped beside her, her voice a low, confidential murmur. "You didn't order that."

Paige's eyes never left the scene, the chaos, the blood. "No."

"You going to claim it?" Nika pressed, her gaze sharp, analytical.

A beat of silence, a long, considering moment as the paramedics rushed in with a stretcher. Paige tilted her head slightly, a gesture of cold, clinical assessment. "Why would I take credit for something so sloppy?" she said, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion. "No finesse. No message. Just... messy."

KK was lifted onto the stretcher, pale and sweating, but conscious. Her eyes scanned the yard wildly, a frantic, desperate search for an enemy, for an explanation. They landed on Paige, a final, desperate plea for understanding, for an answer.

For one long second, Paige held her gaze. Her expression was unreadable, a blank wall of indifference.

KK tried to speak, to form a word, a name, but all that came out was a bubble of bright, red blood that spilled over her lips, a grotesque parody of a final word. She was carried out, a broken, bleeding thing.

The yard fell into a shaken hush, the silence heavier than before. Guards began herding inmates back towards their units, their voices sharp and commanding.

Nika watched Paige carefully, a new respect dawning in her eyes. "You're smiling," she observed, a note of disbelief in her voice.

Paige's mouth flattened instantly, the fleeting expression erased before it could fully form. "I'm thinking," she said, her voice low. "I'm thinking that sometimes, the problem solves itself."

***

The medical bay smelled like antiseptic and iron, a sterile scent that did little to mask the metallic tang of blood lingering in the air. KK lay pale against the thin, starched pillow, an oxygen line hooked beneath her nose, a hissing counterpoint to her shallow breaths. The stab wound had missed anything vital by inches, a sloppy, desperate angle that had been a lucky outcome for her. She wasn't grateful. She was furious, a cold, simmering rage that burned in her eyes and tightened the lines around her mouth.

Governor Daley stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed over her chest, her posture a study in impatient authority. "Who did it?" she asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the hiss of the oxygen machine.

KK's jaw tightened, a small, stubborn movement. "You already know."

"Humor me," Daley said, her voice dangerously soft.

KK's eyes burned with a feverish intensity. "Bueckers."

Daley didn't react, her expression a blank, unreadable mask. "Witnesses say Kayleigh Heckel."

KK scoffed weakly, a dry, rasping sound that made her wince in pain. "Kayleigh doesn't have the balls to move without protection. She's a ghost. Someone gave her the nudge. Someone gave her the weapon."

Daley stepped closer, her shadow falling over KK's prone form. "Are you saying Paige ordered it?"

KK's lips curled into a sneer, a grotesque parody of a smile. "She didn't have to."

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken accusation.

"Everyone knows what happens when you cross her," KK continued, her voice a low, venomous hiss. "You don't need an order. You just need a reason. And she gave everyone a reason when she let me get away with what I did to Sarah. It was a sign of weakness. Kayleigh just... collected."

Daley studied her, her mind working, connecting the dots. That was the problem. Even if Paige didn't do it, her reputation made it believable. Her legend was so powerful, so pervasive, that it had a life of its own, a force of nature that could be wielded by others. She had created a monster, whether she had intended to or not.

***

The interview room was a box of concrete and steel, designed for intimidation. A metal table, scarred and dented, sat in the center. A camera in the corner, its single red light a blinking, unblinking eye, recorded everything. One chair was bolted to the floor, a permanent fixture for the accused. Paige sat calmly, her back straight, her hands resting loosely on the cold, metal surface. She looked like she was there for a business meeting, not an interrogation.

Daley paced slowly, her heels clicking a sharp, rhythmic pattern on the concrete floor. "KK was stabbed."

"I heard," Paige said, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion.

"By someone with a previous conflict," Daley continued, her pacing never ceasing. "Kayleigh Heckel. A woman who, according to her file, is not known for taking initiative."

Paige nodded once, a slow, deliberate gesture. "Sounds accurate."

Daley stopped in front of her, leaning forward, her hands flat on the table, invading Paige's space. "You expect me to believe this wasn't retaliation? That it's just a coincidence that your biggest rival gets taken out the day after she attacks your friend?"

Paige looked up, her gaze clear and steady, meeting Daley's angry glare without a flicker of fear. "You expect me to control every woman in this prison? To be responsible for their grudges? That's a lot of power for an inmate, Governor."

Daley leaned down slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "She says you ordered it. That you gave Kayleigh the green light."

Paige's expression didn't shift. It was like watching a stone face the wind. "She says a lot of things. Most of them are lies."

"Did you?" Daley pressed, her eyes boring into Paige's, searching for any sign of deception, any crack in the facade.

Silence. Paige didn't rush to answer. She let the silence stretch, filling the small room with a tension so thick it was almost palpable. "No."

Daley watched her carefully, her gaze a physical weight. "You're quiet lately. No fights. No smart mouth in the yard. It's... suspicious."

"I'm tired," Paige said, her voice a low murmur. "It's been a long week."

"That's not what I meant," Daley countered, her voice sharp.

Another beat of silence. Paige's voice lowered even further, a soft, almost intimate tone that was more disarming than a shout. "You want to know what I think?"

Daley didn't answer, but she didn't move away either.

"I think KK made too many enemies," Paige said, her eyes holding Daley's. "She stepped on toes. She took things that weren't hers. She burned bridges. She was playing a game she didn't know how to win. It was only a matter of time before someone collected on the debt she owed. It just wasn't me."

Daley straightened up, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "If I find even a whisper that you orchestrated this, even a hint that you were involved, I'll make sure you never see the light of day again."

"You won't," Paige said, her voice not cocky, but controlled, a quiet statement of absolute certainty.

Daley hated that. Hated the calm, the control, the unshakeable self-assurance.

Later, Daley stood by her office window, looking down at the yard below, a chessboard of moving pieces. Azzi entered quietly, closing the door behind her.

"KK survived," Daley said without turning, her voice flat.

"I know," Azzi replied.

"She's blaming Paige," Daley said, her voice laced with a weary cynicism.

"Of course she is," Azzi said, her tone matter-of-fact.

Daley turned now, her eyes sharp and questioning. "Tell me something, Doctor. Do you think she did it?"

Azzi didn't answer immediately. She took a moment, considering her words, weighing the implications. "I think Paige understands optics," she said finally, her voice thoughtful.

"That's not what I asked," Daley pressed, her gaze unwavering.

"I don't believe she ordered it," Azzi said, her voice firm, clear, and unequivocal.

Daley's eyebrow lifted in a gesture of mild surprise. "Why?"

"Because it was messy," Azzi said simply. "It was public. It was an emotional act, not a strategic one. Paige is many things, but she is not messy. Her revenge, when she chooses to take it, is surgical. Personal. This was a tantrum with a weapon. It's not her style."

Daley studied her carefully, her expression a complex mix of skepticism and grudging respect. "You're either perceptive," she said, a pause hanging in the air between them, "or compromised."

Azzi held her ground, her gaze steady and clear. "I'm neither. I'm doing my job."

Daley smiled thinly, a cold, humorless expression that didn't reach her eyes. "Make sure that stays true, Doctor. For both your sakes."

***

The hallway was a long, sterile canyon of concrete and steel, the scent of disinfectant hanging thick in the air. Paige was mopping the floors, the rhythmic slosh and drag of the mop in the bucket a mindless, meditative task. She moved with a practiced efficiency, the gray water swallowing up the scuffs and dirt, her movements a stark contrast to the turmoil churning just beneath the surface of her skin.

Dr. Fudd walked by, her heels clicking a sharp, professional rhythm on the polished floor. She stopped beside Paige, a curious look on her face. "Thought you were in the kitchen," Dr. Fudd said, her voice a calm interruption to the monotonous sloshing.

Paige didn't look up, just continued her methodical strokes, a small, wry smile playing on her lips. "I like to mop shit too," she replied, her voice a low, casual murmur. "Helps me keep it real."

"Heard KK got moved to medical after being stabbed in the chest," Dr. Fudd said, her tone shifting, becoming more deliberate, a test.

Paige scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound, and rolled her eyes, finally stopping her work to look up at the doctor. "What you think I did that shit?"

"What's your point, Azzi?" Paige asked, her voice dropping, a challenge in her eyes.

"No point," Dr. Fudd started to reply, but Paige cut her off, her voice rising with a sudden, volatile fury.

"Are you fucking serious?" she snapped, her grip tightening on the mop handle until her knuckles were white. "You want honesty, and then you come at me with that bullshit? You're accusing me?"

"I'm not," Azzi started to say, her voice a placating attempt to calm the storm.

"Bullshit you are," Paige shot back, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Don't fucking lie to me. Not you."

Dr. Fudd stepped closer, closing the distance between them, her gaze unwavering. "I was worried about you, that's all."

"Worried?" Paige laughed, a short, sharp, bitter sound. "Worried that I went and stabbed KK? Is that what you think of me?"

"No," Dr. Fudd said, her voice soft but firm. "Worried that you got pushed too far. Worried that you were going to be blamed for something you didn't do."

"You need to stay the fuck away from me," Paige said, her voice a low, warning hiss, turning away from her, the mop handle a barrier between them.

"Okay," Dr. Fudd said, backing up, her hands raised in a gesture of surrender. But she didn't leave. She just stood there, her eyes fixed on Paige's rigid back.

Paige felt her gaze, a physical weight, and she turned back around, her anger a hot, suffocating blanket. Dr. Fudd looked her in the eyes, her own expression a mixture of regret and sincerity. "I'm sorry," she said, the words hanging in the tense air between them.

"You can shove that sorry up your fucking ass," Paige said, her voice cold, sharp, and final.

Dr. Fudd just stood there for a moment longer, a flicker of hurt in her eyes before she masked it, turning and walking away, her heels clicking a retreat down the long, empty hallway.

Paige watched her go, the anger slowly draining out of her, leaving behind a hollow, aching void. She stood there for a long time, the mop dripping onto the clean floor, a small, steady puddle forming at her feet. She felt bad after the fact, a wave of regret washing over her, cold and sharp. She hadn't meant to say that. Not really. But the words had come out, fueled by a week of fear, of helplessness, of the crushing weight of being constantly suspected, constantly judged. And now, she had just pushed away the one person who had actually tried to believe her. The one person who had seen past the monster, even for a second. And the realization of what she had just done was a pain far worse than any physical blow.

***

The day after the fight with Dr. Fudd felt heavier than a lockdown, the air thick with a suffocating unspoken tension. Paige had a session with her, one she certainly wasn't looking forward to, especially after their fight in the hallway. Every step towards the administrative wing felt like a march to her own execution, the familiar walls of the prison feeling like they were closing in, not just on her, but on the fragile, complicated thing she had started to build with the doctor. She reached the familiar wooden door, her hand hovering for a moment before she knocked, the sound sharp and impatient, betraying the nervous energy thrumming beneath her skin.

"Come in," Dr. Fudd's voice called out, calm and composed, as if yesterday's explosive confrontation had never happened.

Paige pushed the door open and stepped inside, her movements stiff. She didn't flop into her usual chair today. She sat, her back ramrod straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, a posture of rigid self-defense. She was a fortress, and the gates were closed.

Dr. Fudd was behind her desk, but instead of staying there, she stood and walked around, pulling up the chair that was usually reserved for guests or colleagues. She placed it directly beside Paige, close enough that their knees were almost touching, a move that was both intimate and disarming. She sat, turning to face Paige, her expression unreadable.

"So," Dr. Fudd began, her voice casual, almost conversational. "How the fuck are you doing?"

Paige's head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief. The casual profanity, the direct echo of her own language, thrown back at her with such a nonchalant air, was so unexpected it disarmed her completely. She stared at Dr. Fudd, searching her face for any sign of sarcasm or anger, anything to show she was mad about there argument yesterday but found none. Just a calm, steady gaze that seemed to see right through her defenses.

"Anything you wanna talk about?" Dr. Fudd asked, her voice softening slightly, a gentle invitation.

"You start off," Paige replied, her voice tight, shrugging her shoulder in a gesture of defiance. "I've had enough of talking about me."

"Well, we're here to talk about you, Paige," Dr. Fudd replied, her tone firm but not unkind.

"No," Paige said, her voice low and sharp, cutting through the doctor's placid tone. "We're here because you broke the trust. You stood there and accused me, after everything. After you said you believed me. So you don't get to act like we're just gonna talk about me today. That's not how this works."

Dr. Fudd let out a slow breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. "You're right," she said, her voice quiet, a genuine concession. "I have acknowledged that I compromised that. I was wrong. I let my own fear, my own concern for you, get twisted into an accusation. It was a mistake, and I am sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix it," Paige shot back, her voice still tight with anger. "Sorry doesn't take back the fact that you looked at me and saw a killer. Just like everyone else."

"I know," Dr. Fudd said, her voice soft but firm. "And we can't sit here and focus on that. You're right. It's done. It's over. But we can't ignore it either.

Trust is a two-way street, Azzi. You know all about me, or at least you think you do. So why don't you tell me some things about you? Fair's fair."

Paige's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk, a flicker of her old, mischievous self returning. "I want dirt," she said, her voice a low, purring challenge. "Give me the good stuff. The skeletons in your closet."

Dr. Fudd let out a nervous chuckle, a sound that was both genuine and flustered. "I can't give you dirt, you know that," she said, a slight flush creeping up her neck. "There's a whole host of reasons that therapists shouldn't bring their personal lives into a session. It's unethical, it's unprofessional, it's a violation of about a hundred different codes of conduct."

"So you're just a wall I talk to and get nothing back?" Paige replied, her voice dripping with a theatrical disappointment. "That's not a partnership. That's a sermon."

"Were you and KK close?" Dr. Fudd asked, changing the subject with a swift, strategic pivot. "Or on good terms, at one point? Was she someone who betrayed your trust?"

Paige ignored the question, her gaze drifting to the window, to the sliver of sky visible beyond the bars. She wasn't going to talk about KK. Not today.

"When was your first time with a woman?" Paige asked instead, her voice sudden, direct, and completely unexpected.

Dr. Fudd coughed, a sharp, startled sound, then let out a laugh, a mix of shock and amusement. "Okay," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Why did you change the subject?"

Paige stared her in the eyes, her playful smirk gone, replaced by a serious, intense look that was both challenging and deeply curious. "When?" she asked again, her voice a low, insistent demand.

"Paige, why did you change the subject?" Dr. Fudd asked again, her voice a little firmer, trying to regain control of the session.

"I know you're a lesbian," Paige stated, her voice a flat, confident declaration. "It's obvious. The way you carry yourself, the way you look at things. So answer my question."

"Answer mine," Dr. Fudd shot back, her own voice rising slightly, a flicker of her own frustration showing through. "Why is it so important for you to know about my personal life? What does it have to do with you?"

"Yup," Paige said happily, a wide, triumphant smile breaking across her face. "You didn't deny it. So, when was it?"

Dr. Fudd stared at her, a long, silent battle of wills playing out between them. She could see the challenge in Paige's eyes, the desperate need to know, to find a crack in her professional facade, to find something real, something human she could connect with. And she knew, with a sudden, startling clarity, that this wasn't just a game. This was a plea.

"It was in college," Dr. Fudd said finally, her voice quiet, a concession. "My sophomore year. Her name was Elena. She was a poet, and she had eyes the color of the sky after a storm. We used to sneak into the library after hours and read to each other in the stacks. It was... quiet. And beautiful."

Paige was silent, her smile gone, her expression one of rapt attention. She was listening, really listening, her walls down for the first time since she had walked into the room.

"She broke my heart," Dr. Fudd continued, her voice a little softer, a little more vulnerable. "She graduated and left without saying goodbye. I didn't see it coming. It was the first time I had ever really let myself be vulnerable with someone, and it... it hurt. A lot."

Paige looked down at her hands, her own story of betrayal and pain reflected in Dr. Fudd's. She understood that feeling. The gut-wrenching pain of being left behind, of being not enough.

"So now you know," Dr. Fudd said, her voice a little stronger, a little more composed. "Your turn. Tell me about your first time."

Paige looked up, a slow, sad smile touching her lips. "It was in the back of a stolen car," she said, her voice a low, rough murmur. "Her name was Jessica. She had a laugh like breaking glass and a heart full of trouble. We were fifteen, and we thought we were invincible. It wasn't quiet. And it wasn't beautiful. It was fast, and desperate, and over in five minutes. And I never saw her again."

The room was silent, the air thick with the shared weight of their stories, two very different worlds colliding in the quiet space of the office.

"Why did you become a therapist?" Paige asked, her voice soft, a genuine question. "Why would you choose to listen to people like me all day?"

"Because I believe in redemption," Dr. Fudd replied, her voice clear and strong. "Because I believe that no one is beyond saving. And because I know what it's like to be lost, to feel like you're screaming in a room full of people and no one can hear you. I want to be the person who hears."

Paige stared at her, a long, searching look. She saw the sincerity in Dr. Fudd's eyes, the unwavering belief, and it scared her. It scared her because it made her want to believe it too.

"You're a real idealist, aren't you, Azzi?" Paige said, her voice a low, rough murmur, a flicker of her old, cynical self returning.

"Someone has to be," Dr. Fudd replied, a small, sad smile touching her lips.

Paige leaned in closer, the space between them shrinking until there was almost nothing left. She could feel the warmth of Dr. Fudd's body, could smell the faint, clean scent of her shampoo. Her eyes dropped to Dr. Fudd's lips, and she felt a pull, a magnetic, undeniable attraction that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"What are you doing, Paige?" Dr. Fudd whispered, her voice a shaky breath, but she didn't pull away.

"Seeing if you're as real as you seem," Paige replied, her voice a low, husky murmur. She leaned in a little closer, her lips just a breath away from Dr. Fudd's, so close she could feel the soft puff of air from the doctor's parted lips. "Are you?"

Dr. Fudd didn't answer. She didn't move. She didn't pull away. She just sat there, her eyes closed, her breath held in her chest, a silent, trembling surrender to the moment, to the undeniable electricity that arced between them. Paige could feel the rapid, fluttering beat of Dr. Fudd's heart, or maybe it was her own, a frantic drum against her ribs. The air was thick, heavy with unspoken words and forbidden desires. This was the line, the one she wasn't supposed to cross, the one Dr. Fudd wasn't supposed to let her near. And yet, here they were, hovering on the edge, balanced on a knife's blade of professional ruin and raw, undeniable need. Paige didn't kiss her. She just stayed there, a breath away, a silent, powerful question hanging in the air between them, a test, a promise, and a threat all at once. And in that moment, Paige knew she had her. She knew she had broken through the wall, had found the real person hiding behind the professional facade. And she knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified her, that nothing would ever be the same again.

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