Conference A felt colder than the rest of the floor.
Not because of the air conditioning.
Because of the faces of everyone.
Cold wasn't new to her. Cold had been concrete floors and steel bunks and guards who called her by her last name like it was a citation.
This cold was carpeted, sanitized. And somehow sharper.
Caroline stepped in behind Mira and saw the board already seated—polished suits, neat folders, coffee cups placed like props.
No one frowned at her. No one challenged her presence.
Instead, she got polite nods and professional smiles.
The kind that hid intent.
Politeness, Caroline had learned, was sometimes just a softer form of violence.
In prison, the worst days weren't the ones with shouting—they were the ones with smiles, when a guard was almost gentle while taking
