Blackridge Prison — Present Day
The alarm buzzed overhead, a mechanical shriek that marked the start of another day in Blackridge. Lexa rolled off the cot, feet landing silently on the cold floor. She moved like a shadow—quiet, deliberate, coiled with purpose.
She didn't speak unless necessary. Didn't flinch unless it was strategy. Three years had shaped her into something leaner, harder.
Still, even steel cracked under constant pressure.
The prison ran on a language of power.
Words were secondary.
Every look was a calculation. Every movement, a test. Lexa had survived by walking a thin line—dangerous enough to be left alone, restrained enough to avoid solitary.
But that balance was slipping.
Whispers had followed her since yesterday.
A new fed. Here. Asking questions.
Someone from her past.
A man in a suit. Cold eyes.
Damon.
Lexa kept her face unreadable as she stepped into the yard. The sky was dull slate, wind stiff with rust and bleach. Inmates loitered like predators—eyes tracking, waiting.
Mara Vargas leaned against the fence, tattoos creeping like vines up her neck. Leader of the Razorbacks. Unofficial queen of Cellblock D. And Lexa's most immediate problem.
"You Quinn?" Mara called out. Loud. Mocking.
Lexa didn't answer.
Mara pushed off the fence, swaggering forward. "Word is you used to be some kind of fed. Fancy clearance. Suits and secrets."
A circle was forming. Inmates drawn by blood in the air.
Lexa stepped into it, calm as glass. "I was. You got something to ask?"
Mara grinned, showing gold-capped teeth. "Just wondering how someone like you lands in our pit unless she pissed off the wrong people. Maybe you're here for payback, yeah? Maybe someone wants you broken."
Lexa's jaw tensed. "Maybe I'm just here to wait."
"Wait for what?"
Lexa tilted her head. "The right time."
That was enough.
Mara lunged, fist cutting through the air.
Lexa ducked, pivoted, drove her elbow into Mara's ribs. The woman gasped—but recovered quick. The fight blurred—knees striking ribs, fists connecting, raw survival. It ended with Lexa on top, forearm across Mara's throat.
"Next time," Lexa hissed, "don't miss."
She stood, backed off. Blood smeared her knuckles. The crowd dispersed, disappointed.
Guards stormed in a minute too late.
Mess Hall — Two Hours Later
The steel tray in Lexa's hands steamed with barely edible food, but the tension in the air had nothing to do with the slop. Word of the fight had spread, and eyes followed her every step.
She sat alone at a corner table. No one dared sit close. Not yet.
From the other end of the room, Nova Sinclair watched her. Not Razorback. Not anything. Just dangerous.
Nova sauntered over slowly, dropped onto the bench opposite her. She didn't speak right away. Just stared.
"Nice work earlier," she said eventually. "Didn't think you had it in you."
Lexa didn't respond.
Nova leaned forward. "Mara's got a long memory. And a short fuse. You made a move—now you're in it."
"I didn't come here to play politics," Lexa muttered.
Nova smirked. "Too bad. In here, you don't get to choose."
Lexa's fork clinked against the tray. "Why do you care?"
"Because the enemy of my enemy is an opportunity," Nova said. "And because you've got that look. Like you're not just trying to survive—you've got a reason to fight."
Lexa's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I do."
"Then maybe we talk again." Nova stood. "Soon."
As Nova walked away, Lexa caught a glimpse of something scarred across her arm—numbers. A date.
Not a gang mark.
Something worse.
Flashback — A Week Before Her Arrest
Lexa sat in a parked car across from Damon's apartment. Rain blurred the windshield, matching the storm unraveling inside her. She shouldn't be here. They'd set boundaries—professional distance, emotional detachment.
But those lines had been blurring for months now.
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
A sharp knock on the window made her jump.
Damon.
He didn't smile. Just met her eyes through the downpour and gave a small nod, then turned and walked toward his building.
Lexa hesitated only a moment before following.
Minutes later, she was inside. His apartment was warm, dim, and quiet—worlds away from the fluorescent chaos of federal headquarters.
"You stalking me now?" Damon asked as he handed her a glass of whiskey.
Lexa exhaled a laugh, shaking her head. "No. Just... couldn't sleep."
He sat beside her on the couch, close enough that their shoulders touched. "You've been tense all week."
"There's something off. I can feel it. Files disappearing. Surveillance gaps. My clearance logs don't match."
"You report it yet?"
"Not until I know who's covering their tracks."
Damon leaned back, studying her. "You always carry the weight of the whole agency?"
"Someone has to."
"You ever think about walking away?"
"All the time."
"Then why don't you?"
Lexa turned her head toward him. "Because... people like you make it harder."
His brow lifted slightly, something flickering in his eyes.
The silence stretched between them, thick and electric.
She didn't know who moved first. Maybe it didn't matter. His hand brushed hers, then his mouth found hers—a slow, aching kiss that built with every second. Months of tension unraveled in an instant.
And in that moment, she knew: if this was the beginning of the end, she wouldn't regret it.
Not this part.
Not him.
Four Days Before Her Arrest
Lexa stood in the dim glow of a downtown bar, half-listening to the live jazz band while Damon leaned against the wall beside her. They weren't supposed to be seen together like this—not off the clock, not without reason. But tonight, neither of them cared.
"You always this bad at relaxing?" Damon asked, handing her a drink.
Lexa smirked. "You dragged me here."
"I dragged you out of the war zone you call your mind. That's different."
They clinked glasses and drank. For a few stolen hours, they were just Lexa and Damon—not agents, not suspects, not secrets waiting to detonate.
Later that night, they ended up at his apartment again. There were no long conversations this time, no slow burn. Just hands, skin, need. She let herself get lost in him—his breath on her neck, the way he whispered her name like it meant more than just a warning.
---
Present Day — Warden's Office — Later That Day
Lexa stood, wrists chained, face impassive. The warden, a skeletal man with nicotine-stained fingers, didn't look up from his file.
"You're on thin ice, Quinn. Another brawl and you're in isolation."
She didn't answer.
A second door opened.
Lexa turned—and froze.
Damon Cross walked in.
Not in uniform. Not in prison gray. But in a Bureau suit, sharp and pressed, like the years hadn't touched him.
His eyes met hers—and slid past like she was a wall.
"Agent Cross," the warden greeted. "Thanks for coming."
Damon nodded. "Just here to observe."
Lexa's throat tightened. That voice. Detached. Formal. Like they were strangers.
No hint of apology. No flicker of regret.
He wouldn't even look at her again.
The warden gestured. "This one used to be yours, right?"
"She was a former analyst," Damon said flatly. "Not mine."
Lexa narrowed her eyes. Every syllable carved a deeper wound.
"Any interest in questioning her while you're here?" the warden offered.
Damon gave the smallest shake of his head. "No. We're focused on broader patterns of corruption. She's not relevant to the current investigation."
He turned to leave.
Lexa spoke. Just loud enough.
"Still lying through your teeth, Damon?"
He paused—but didn't turn.
"Still trusting the wrong people, Lexa?"
Then he walked out.
The door shut with finality.
---
That Night — Cellblock D
Lexa sat alone in her cell, staring at the cracks in the wall.
She had hoped for answers.
Instead, she got silence.
And something worse.
A cold indifference.
But if Damon was here… the past wasn't dead.
It was back.
And it had teeth.
Lexa leaned back against the wall, letting the chill settle into her bones.
If he thought she was broken, he was wrong.
This prison might have stolen her time. Her freedom.
But it hadn't taken her fight.
Tomorrow, she'd start watching.
Not just inmates.
But staff.
Agents.
Damon.
And she'd dig, even from inside this cage.
Because the truth wasn't buried.
It was still walking.
Wearing a badge.
And one day—it would bleed.
The Next Day — Blackridge Prison, Yard
The prison yard was a patchwork of cracked concrete and fenced hostility. Inmates grouped like packs of wolves—territories defined by unspoken rules and stares that said too much.
Lexa stood alone at first. Observing.
She wasn't new anymore, but she wasn't part of anything either.
Not Mara's faction—dominant, brutal, loyal to chaos.
Not Nova's clique—sharper, quieter, but just as dangerous in their own way.
And that made Lexa a threat.
Nova approached, her arms crossed. "You made waves yesterday."
Lexa didn't look at her. "Didn't mean to."
"That's the thing about waves. Intent doesn't matter. Only the ripples."
Mara watched from a corner, sitting on a concrete bench with her crew. She smirked when her eyes met Lexa's.
Nova glanced that way. "You should pick a side."
"I don't do sides."
"That's cute," Nova replied. "That's how people die in here."
Lexa turned to her. "I'm not just, 'people'."
Nova almost smiled. "Prove it."
---
Later — Cafeteria
Lexa walked with her tray, ignoring the side-glances, the whispers. She was halfway to an empty seat when a leg suddenly stuck out in her path.
She stumbled, barely keeping the tray upright.
Laughter erupted.
Mara.
Lexa turned slowly. The look in her eyes made the laughter die.
"You want a problem?" she asked quietly.
Mara rose from her seat. Towering. Tattooed. "Just saying hi."
"You trip people to say hi?"
"It's my love language."
Lexa took a step forward. "Here's mine."
She slammed the tray onto the table, hard enough to make every eye turn.
The tension snapped tight.
Mara grinned. "You've got fire. I like that. Maybe I'll let you burn."
Lexa held her ground. "Maybe I'll bring the match."
Behind Mara, two of her crew—Shay and Rika—rose from their seats. Broad-shouldered, inked, expressions twisted in anticipation. Two more stood. Then another. The table emptied in slow, deliberate motion.
Seven to one.
Unfair.
But Lexa's fists clenched anyway.
Let them come.
Then—
A shuffle.
Another sound of chairs dragging against the floor. From across the cafeteria, Nova stood. Quiet. Calculated. Her eyes locked with Mara's. Cold war in a single glance.
Then Nova's girls stood too. Six of them. Sharp-boned, sharp-eyed, quiet as knives. No words.
Just presence.
Just pressure.
An unspoken message written in body language:
Touch her, and we touch you.
The room pulsed with the tension of a held breath.
Mara chuckled low, licking her teeth. "Look at that," she muttered, eyes flicking between Lexa and Nova. "Didn't know you had friends."
Lexa's voice was low. "Neither did I."
"Cute," Mara said, backing away. "But next time, no audience."
She sat back down, one by one her crew following her lead, though not without a few lingering stares—warnings scribbled in silence.
Nova sat too, her tray untouched. She didn't look at Lexa again, but the message was clear:
You're not alone. But don't waste it.
Lexa exhaled slowly. Her tray trembled slightly in her grip, though her face remained hard.
For now, it was over.
But war had been declared in more than one language.
Later That Day — Blackridge Prison, Cellblock D
Lexa sat on the edge of her bunk, the thin mattress creaking beneath her weight. Her knuckles still ached from clenching them too tightly. The cafeteria had nearly turned into a bloodbath—and she'd been at the center of it.
But she hadn't bled.
That was new.
She leaned back against the wall, eyes on the rusted vent above. The air was hot and stale, pressing down on her like judgment. Across the cellblock, voices murmured. Some hostile. Some curious. But all of them carried her name now.
She was no longer invisible.
Nova had made sure of that.
A knock rattled her bars.
"Visitor," a guard grunted.
Lexa frowned. "Now?"
He didn't answer. Just opened the gate and motioned for her to follow.
Solitary Wing — Observation Room
The hallway reeked of bleach and buried screams.
Lexa's boots thudded against the concrete, every step heavier than the last. The guard didn't speak. He just walked, slow and deliberate, like he was taking her somewhere final.
Empty cells watched her pass—hollow rooms filled with ghosts.
At the end of the corridor, he stopped and unlocked a narrow steel door. No windows. Just mirrored glass on the far wall.
Lexa stepped in.
And there he was.
Damon Cross.
He stood on the other side of the glass, arms crossed, framed by shadows and authority.
No prison orange. No cuffs.
Black tactical pants. Fitted collared shirt. His federal badge gleamed like a weapon at his hip.
He looked like control. Like power.
Like everything she no longer had.
Lexa's chest tightened. The door clicked shut behind her. Locked.
Just her.
And him.
She didn't sit. She didn't blink.
"Long way from Washington," she said, voice carved from stone.
Damon didn't answer at first. His eyes scanned her face like he was searching for someone buried beneath time and rage. "You look… different."
Lexa laughed softly, but it was hollow. "Three years in hell will do that to a person."
"I didn't come to fight."
"Then you shouldn't have shown your face."
He held her gaze. "I read everything."
"Did you?" Her voice sharpened. "Then you know my clearance was used. You know it wasn't me."
His jaw tensed. "I know what the files said."
"Do the files also say you disappeared the night it happened? That you stopped answering your phone? That your access logs were wiped clean?"
The air between them turned razor sharp.
"I didn't betray you, Lexa."
"No," she said, stepping forward, voice dropping. "You abandoned me. There's a difference."
Silence.
Then Damon moved closer to the glass, his reflection flickering in the mirrored surface.
"There are things happening here you don't understand."
"Then explain it. Right now."
"I can't."
Her fists clenched. "Why are you here?"
"Blackridge is part of something bigger. Something buried."
"Spare me the cryptic crap, Damon. You don't get to walk back into my life with riddles and a badge."
His voice lowered. "You were never supposed to end up in here."
"But I did. Because someone used my clearance. Someone inside." She stared at him. "And I still don't know if it was you."
Damon's eyes darkened. "You think I'd do that to you?"
"I think I don't know who you are anymore."
For a moment, something flickered in his face—pain, maybe. Guilt. Or just the ghost of the man she used to trust.
Then it vanished.
He stepped back. "Stay out of trouble, Lexa."
Her laughter was venomous. "Too late for that."
Damon hesitated at the door. "You're not the only one who wants answers."
And then he was gone.
Lexa stood there, fists trembling, throat tight with fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
She stared into the glass long after his shadow vanished.
All she saw was herself.
And a storm coiling behind her eyes.
[Author's Thoughts]
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