The chaos in the prison corridor had been deafening—shouts, metal clanging, the thud of boots against concrete. Viv had barely managed to sidestep one inmate's makeshift shiv when another came from her blind spot, a jagged piece of sharpened plastic flashing in the dim light. She twisted, but not fast enough; the blade nicked her forearm, burning hot against her skin. Blood welled instantly, soaking into her sleeve.

Before the second strike could land, a thunderous bang rattled the air, followed by the crack of concussion grenades. The world erupted into a cacophony of SWAT boots, shouted commands, and the clatter of batons against the floor. Black-clad officers stormed the block, pinning prisoners to the ground with ruthless efficiency. The air reeked of gunpowder and sweat, the adrenaline still thundering in Viv's veins as the tension broke.

She didn't fight when two officers grabbed her under the arms and half-led, half-dragged her toward the medical unit. Her sleeve was quickly cut away, antiseptic stinging the fresh cut as a prison nurse worked with brisk, impersonal precision. Somewhere beyond the barred doors, Daphne was pacing like a caged animal, her voice sharp with frustration as she argued with the guards. She could see Viv through the glass for a brief moment—pale, composed, but her arm wrapped in fresh gauze—and that single glimpse made Daphne's jaw tighten with helpless anger.

The prison transfer happened with unnerving efficiency. One moment, Viv was lying on the infirmary cot, her arm swathed in clean bandages, the sterile smell of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air. The next, the halls reverberated with the sound of boots and clanging metal doors as groups of prisoners—still shaken from the riot—were rounded up for relocation.

She stayed out of sight, leaning against the cold wall near the infirmary entrance, watching without expression. Pen's name was called over the PA system, her voice hitching in shock when an officer informed her she was being granted a retrial and released under supervised bail. Viv caught the brief flicker of relief on Pen's face, followed almost instantly by suspicion—how things had shifted so quickly was no accident, and Pen knew it. But she didn't ask questions, just packed her things with trembling hands.

Lux's release followed days later. Her smirk was intact, but there was a flash of something sharper in her eyes—calculation, perhaps recognition—that her sudden freedom was courtesy of her family's relentless money and influence. When her gaze met Viv's across the yard, there was no taunt this time, only a silent, lingering glance that promised she'd be seeing her again.

Viv didn't linger on either of them. The mission was over. Pen was out. Lux was irrelevant. Her arm still throbbed under the bandages, but the pain was manageable; what mattered now was getting out clean.

By the end of the week, Daphne had arranged the necessary paperwork for Viv's "Alexine Vause" cover to be quietly removed from the system. The transition was deliberately slow—bureaucracy always had to look believable—but it was inevitable. Viv spent her final hours in the prison under the radar, neither inmate nor guard bothering her. The SWAT raid had shaken the place into unnatural silence, and the new faces in orange jumpsuits weren't her concern.

The day she left, Daphne was waiting in the prison's outer processing area, civilian clothes replacing her work attire, her posture tense until she saw Viv step through the final gate. For the first time in weeks, Viv allowed herself the faintest curve of a smile—not for the victory, not for the freedom, but because she was going home.

London awaited—along with the bookshop, Duke Pudding - the black cat, and the kind of quiet that Viv had almost forgotten could exist.