The rain hammered relentlessly against the cold metal of the prison transport van, each drop echoing like a ticking clock counting down Lexa Quinn's last moments of freedom. The sky was a bruised gray, heavy with the threat of more storms to come. Outside the small, barred window, the landscape blurred into a bleak smear of concrete and steel as the vehicle rumbled forward toward Blackridge Penitentiary.
Inside, the air was thick with tension and stale coldness. Lexa sat rigid, her wrists bound by unforgiving handcuffs that bit into her skin. The thin orange jumpsuit she wore did little to shield her from the chill that crept into her bones. Her eyes—sharp and unyielding, the deep green flecked with steely resolve—fixed on nothing in particular, but every muscle in her body was alert, every nerve stretched tight.
She was no stranger to pressure. Federal analyst, strategist, someone who had spent years parsing lies and truths, secrets and half-truths. But none of that had prepared her for this: a high-security prison, a world where trust was currency and betrayal was the death sentence.
The guard sitting across from her—his face obscured by the shadows of the van's interior—grunted. "Keep your head down, Quinn. Don't give anyone a reason."
Lexa didn't respond. Words were weapons, but silence could be a shield.
The van jolted, signaling they had arrived. Through the window, she glimpsed the towering walls of Blackridge. Razor wire crowned the fences like the spikes of a cruel crown. The gates groaned open, metal scraping against metal.
"Get ready," the guard barked, unlocking her cuffs and hauling her to her feet.
The cold air slammed into her as the doors opened. She blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights of the reception yard, where uniformed officers and stern-faced officials moved with practiced efficiency. Prisoners lingered in the distance—figures marked by desperation and hardened resolve.
Lexa's feet crunched on gravel as they led her forward. Each step echoed in her mind, a metronome counting down the time until she could reclaim her life—or die trying.
Her thoughts flickered to Damon Cross—the man who had turned his back on her, the man who had orchestrated her downfall. Once, she had trusted him with everything; now, he was the shadow lurking behind every door.
The guards pushed her through the intake process: fingerprints, mug shots, body searches. Every moment was an assault on her dignity, but Lexa held her ground. She was more than the charges against her. She was the truth waiting to be uncovered.
"Lexa Quinn," the warden's voice was cold, clipped, echoing off the concrete walls. "Murder One. High-risk transfer. Federal analyst turned convict."
Her name, her crime—it was all they needed to define her. But the story was far from over.
As they escorted her to Cellblock D, the heart of Blackridge's darkest secrets, Lexa's gaze hardened. This prison wasn't just a cage—it was a battleground.
And she was here to fight.