In the dim, sterile glow of the jail’s infirmary, a battered figure lies back against the narrow cot, breath shallow and ragged. Her battered frame marked by cruel hands—deep wounds carved beneath torn clothing, ribs crushed like driftwood, breath caught in the shadows of a collapsed lung. The air is thick with the coppery scent of spilled blood and despair. Outside, the fading thunder of a lightning storm churns the bayou’s murky water, a restless darkness seeping from the city’s veins. No names are whispered, but the cruel touch of those sworn to protect reveals a fracture beneath Hathian’s surface, a rot festering in law’s hollow promises.