POV: Isabella
The cell was not a place for thought; it was a place where thought curdled. It was a concrete box, smelling of bleach, sweat, and despair. A hard bunk. A stainless-steel toilet. A single, recessed light behind a shatterproof screen that never turned off. Time lost its shape, measured only by the distant clanging of doors and the shift changes of disinterested guards.Isabella sat on the edge of the bunk, her arms wrapped around her knees, the stiff, disposable jumpsuit they’d given her rasping against her skin. The shock had worn off, leaving behind a crystalline, almost peaceful, clarity.The lawyer, Fletcher, had laid out the choice with stark, unvarnished logic. The NDA. The exile. A clean, silent death for the truth and for her future. It was the smart move. The only move,
