I could describe the eight-by-five cell I lived in for two months while I waited for my court date, but I won’t.

  I’ll just tell you this: it was hell.

  The kind that doesn’t scream or burn—it hums. It grinds you down slowly, day after identical day, until time stops feeling real and you start measuring your life in meals and headcounts. If I’m lucky, the judge will call it time served.

  Court comes fast and slow at the same time. One minute I’m counting cracks in a cinderblock wall; the next I’m shackled at the ankles, the orange jumpsuit swapped for something meant to look neutral but still screams inmate. Now take everything you think you know about criminal court and toss it out the nearest window. It doesn’t look like it does on TV. There’s no dramatic music, no speeches that change anyone’s mind. Just fluorescent lights, hard benches, and the slow grind of a system that’s already decided who you are before you open your mouth.

  My mom shows up late.

  She’s still in her scrubs—wrinkled, coffee-stained, her hospital badge hanging crooked from her neck like she forgot to take it off because she forgot to be a person first. Her hair is pulled back too tight, the way she wears it when she’s running on fumes. Dark circles live permanently under her eyes now.

  I probably put them there.

  She doesn’t look at me. Not even a glance. Not a flinch. She just stares straight ahead while the cops testify first. They always do. They talk about vandalism and prior offenses and “escalation of behavior” like they’re reading from a script they’ve memorized so well they don’t even have to believe it anymore. Chuckles is there too—uniform crisp, voice steady. He doesn’t mention Elliot. Doesn’t mention why I was angry. Just the facts. Clean, convenient, and hollow.

  I watch my mom’s jaw tighten every time they talk about me. About what I did. Her hands knot together in her lap. She stares straight ahead like if she turns her head even an inch, she’ll break. She nods once when one of them mentions “poor choices.”

  That hurts worse than the cell ever did.

  I get lost in thought as the testimony and evidence mount against me, my mother’s disappointment weighing me down. Guilt presses in from all sides, panic rising with the uncertainty. What’s going to happen? Surely community service—

  Nope. Probably not after I vomited on a cop.

  The sound of the judge’s burly voice jolts me from my racing thoughts.

  “Well, young lady, do you have anything to say for yourself before sentencing?”

  I stand, the chains of my shackles clanking together.

  “No, sir. I have nothing to say. Just… sorry. And I hope Officer—what’s his name—was able to get the smell out of his uniform.”

  For the first time, I feel my mother’s eyes bore into the side of my face. She’s seething with rage.

  I should be worried. I should be sad.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  But it’s like a switch flips in my brain.

  And I decide, right then and there, I’m going to drag everyone down with me.

  I meet Chuckles’ eyes and smirk, giving him a little wink.

  That’s right, fucker. I’m going out on my terms.

  Or so I thought.

  Teenagers are so dumb sometimes. It’s like a built-in flaw—your brain not fully developed enough for critical thinking. I could really use some of that right now. But no. Instead, I decide to piss off everyone in the courtroom, including my mom, because my wee little feelings got hurt.

  Typical.

  Don’t worry. This shit only gets better and better.

  The judge looks at me like a problem that’s finally solved. No anger. No disappointment. Just relief. Like I handed him the excuse he needed.

  His smile is thin. Procedural. Almost bored.

  “If that’s your position,” he says, “then this court sees no alternative corrective option.”

  He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t hesitate.

  “I sentence you to one year in the Happy Campers Troubled Teen Program, effective immediately.”

  A beat. Paper shuffling.

  “For the record,” he adds, “the program has demonstrated positive outcomes. Your brother is a documented success.”

  Something detonates in my chest.

  My eyes snap open as the realization hits.

  “You vile piece of shit.”

  I’m moving before the words finish leaving my mouth. I lunge for the bench, shackles screaming as I drag myself forward. Halfway there—I can already see it, already feel it: his eyeballs under my thumbs, his sweet, painful screams filling the room.

  I don’t make it.

  The bailiff, Chuckles, and vomit guy tackle me to the ground. The wind slams out of my lungs, but I still fight, fingernails clawing into the carpet as they pin me down.

  “I’m going to tear you apart, you monster,” I snarl. “I’ll fill this hall with your screams.”

  The gavel cracks like a gunshot.

  “Remove her,” the judge says flatly. “Now.”

  They haul me up by the arms, dragging me toward the doors while I kick and spit and choke on my own fury.

  And then I see her.

  My mom—folded in on herself, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking. She doesn’t look up. She can’t.

  Something twists deep in my gut, sharp and final.

  I know—know—that was the last time I’ll ever see her.

  I shut my eyes and take a deep breath—and for a second, I feel my brother’s hand squeezing mine, a memory so real it pulls me back into my body.

  The fire crackles nearby, burning bright against the darkness of the forest behind the shack where we stay. When I open my eyes, I’m not in the courtroom anymore. I’m here.

  I look around at the faces of the friends I’ve made during my time in this place. All seven of us. We’ve changed. Grown sharp around the edges. I can still see echoes of the kids we used to be, etched into our faces.

  Kidnapped. Bought. Betrayed.

  That’s what brought us together. And somehow, it’s enough to keep us standing.

  “All right,” I say, forcing a crooked smile. “Who’s next? It’s time I shut my jab and let someone else explain how they got screwed.”