Viv had been patient, watching Lux from a distance since the warning. The heiress had eased off—mostly. Now and then she'd toss a sly remark about Viv's "weird step-sister," clearly unable to resist poking at the edges of the cover story. Viv ignored them like swatting away lazy flies, focusing instead on threading herself deeper into the prison's paper and digital records.

Viv had been careful. The call to Pen's family had to be routed through layers of detours, and even then, she kept her words measured — clinical enough to avoid suspicion, but sharp enough to cut through their cold detachment.
They didn't ask how Pen was. They didn't even ask how long she had left. They just wanted the progress report. Viv gave it to them, voice steady, heart unreadable, and hung up without giving them the satisfaction of small talk.

The next morning, the air inside the prison was... wrong. It wasn't just the usual hum of tension — it was heavier, almost metallic. By mid-morning, the reason became clear. A gun. Someone — a moron in uniform or a corrupt opportunist — had let a firearm slip into the hands of an inmate. By noon, chaos had cracked the walls wide open.

The woman with the gun wasn't subtle. She and her crew stormed the common areas, forcing C.O.s to the ground, zip-tying their wrists, and laughing as they made them bark like dogs and crawl for the entertainment of the crowd.
The noise swelled — jeers, stomps, the metallic click of the gun chambering rounds — but Viv didn't move toward it. Not her problem. Not directly. Her only concern was Pen.

She found her in the corner of the east wing, back against the wall, knees pulled close — smart enough to stay invisible.
"You don't move," Viv said, low and sharp. "Stay here. Eyes down. You're nobody in this mess."
Pen nodded quickly, scanning Viv's face for some sign of reassurance. Viv didn't give it. The plan only worked if Pen stayed paranoid enough to obey.

Viv watched from the periphery, her expression unreadable. She measured the situation, noting the ringleaders and the group dynamics. Her only concern was keeping Pen out of that orbit. As long as Pen was in her cell or tucked somewhere safe, Viv could treat the riot as background noise—another variable to account for, not an existential threat to her plan. If the police stormed the facility in the next couple of days, there was a chance Pen's early release could align with the chaos. And yes—Lux's, too.

Beyond the razor wire and walls, in a Manhattan hotel room with a view that felt useless now, Daphne paced in restless circles. She had been shadowing Viv's operation from a distance, resisting every instinct to intervene. But when the newsfeed lit up with reports of an armed riot inside the prison, her composure began to fray. She'd replayed the possibilities over and over—Viv in the middle of a violent standoff, her cover at risk, the entire mission crumbling.

Her phone sat on the bed, screen dark, as she pressed a hand to her mouth. She couldn't call. She couldn't blow Viv's cover. All she could do was wait, watch the news, and hope that the woman she loved could walk through a riot the same way she walked through every other danger in her life—calm, invisible, untouchable.

Daphne had been trained to move.
Her instincts were wired for action — identify the threat, map the exits, strike first, ask later. Sitting still was never in her nature, but Viv had made her promise: No interference. Not unless I call you.

She'd laughed when Viv said it, because it sounded so formal, like a mission briefing from the old days. But now, with the news replaying shaky footage of smoke in the prison yard, that promise felt like a pair of handcuffs.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, Manhattan sprawling beneath her, so far from the concrete hell Viv was walking through. She could almost feel the claustrophobic corridors, hear the bark of orders, smell the metal tang of blood in the air.
Her pulse kept time with the news ticker at the bottom of the screen. Every minute without word from Viv was another minute her mind filled in the blanks — and her mind was good at painting worst-case scenarios.

She'd tried to distract herself.
She'd paced, showered, ordered room service she didn't touch. She'd checked her gun twice, her passport once, her old agency contacts three times. Every path her brain took ended in the same place — storming the facility and pulling Viv out herself.

But she couldn't.
Because if Viv was in control, Daphne's arrival would blow everything. And if Viv wasn't in control... then arriving late wouldn't matter anyway.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She lunged for it — but it wasn't Viv. Just a news alert: Negotiations underway. Tactical units on standby.
Daphne stared at the words until they blurred. Then she set the phone down, sat on the edge of the bed, and buried her face in her hands.

She hated the waiting. But more than that, she hated the thought that Viv might be doing the same thing she was — pretending she wasn't scared. 

The air in the prison had shifted.
Viv — or rather, Alexine Vause — could feel it. A subtle tightening, like the whole building had taken one collective breath and refused to exhale. The noise level was wrong too: quieter, but with an edge, like the silence before a storm.

She moved through the common area with her usual unhurried steps, the ones that didn't draw attention yet kept her out of anyone's blind spot. A few inmates huddled in corners, whispering too low for her to catch. Others watched her openly, as if waiting to see whether the new girl would make a mistake.

On the far side, Pen was at the table, flipping through a deck of battered playing cards like it was the most natural thing in the world. Viv knew better. Pen's fingers were moving just a fraction too fast — a nervous tell.

"Something's off," Viv murmured as she slid into the seat opposite her.

Pen didn't look up. "They're locking down the east wing. Word is, someone smuggled in a blade. Maybe two."

Viv's eyes flicked toward the security cameras. No red light. Either they were turned off, or someone wanted her to think they were.
She reached for one of Pen's cards, sliding it between her fingers like she was bored, masking the way her gaze tracked the guards' positions. Two at the door. One by the hall. All tense.

The door to the yard slammed open. A rush of shouts and boots followed. Somewhere down the corridor, a fight broke out — no, not a fight. A distraction.

Pen's voice was low, urgent. "Whoever brought the blade in... they're not after me."
Viv's jaw tightened. "No," she said, sliding the card back into the deck, "they're after me."

The room tilted into chaos. The first scream came from the hallway, followed by the heavy thunk of a baton. Guards barked orders, but the noise only grew. Viv stood, her mind already running the angles — where the exits were, who was blocking them, and how fast she could move if the situation snapped completely.