He wants fucking proof? Fine. I'll get him fucking proof.
I stormed through the prison like I owned it, the cold, damp air slapping me in the face with every step. The hallway was lit by dim yellow bulbs that flickered like they were on the verge of giving out—just like everyone who lived in this place. The scent of mildew clung to the walls, and underneath that, the stench of old piss and iron-heavy regret.
Of course Rebecca would thrive here. It was rotten. Just like her.
The guard at the end barely had time to open his mouth before I shoved past him and slammed open the cell door.
There she was. Cross-legged on her flimsy mattress like she was meditating in a temple instead of rotting in a concrete box. Her back was straight, arms behind her in a deliberately posed way—seductive and smug, like this wasn't a cell but her throne.
Her eyes snapped to me. That little fake smile twisted into a sneer.
