Chapter Text
Warden: a person responsible for the supervision of a particular place or thing or for ensuring that regulations associated with it are obeyed.
Ten minutes. That’s all it takes for Elena Gilbert to end up back in handcuffs.
She sits stiffly in a molded plastic chair in the warden’s outer office, wrists bound again, flanked by a silent, disinterested guard. Her fingers ache. Her cheek throbs. But the panic has started to calcify into something sharper—resolve, maybe, or just practiced survival.
Her eyes wander around the sterile room. The walls are a washed-out yellow. There’s a mounted clock ticking far too loud above a row of dead plants, their pots neat but dry. A secretary, gray-haired and indifferent, mutters into a landline at her desk like she’s been part of the furniture since the Nixon administration.
Elena breathes slowly. The cuffs rattle as she lifts her hands and presses them to her face. The slap didn’t leave a bruise—yet—but it started all this. That, and her mouth. That, and her resemblance to a girl she’s never met.
The secretary finally hangs up and peers at her over thick glasses.
"Warden will see you now," she says without inflection, pointing to the large, closed door across the room.
The guard nudges her, but Elena is already standing.
Inside, the warden’s office is minimalist and cold. Framed degrees and commendations line one wall. A clean desk sits centred between two high windows. The office chair is turned away, facing the outside view.
Elena moves toward one of the two chairs set in front of the desk. She reads the polished brass nameplate.
Warden Carolyn Lockwood.
The chair swivels.
"Of course, Tyler," the woman says, phone still pressed to her ear. Her voice is calm, clipped. "I don’t imagine you’d do anything less. Bye."
She places the phone on the receiver and fixes Elena with a look. Cool. Calculating. A woman used to control.
"Out of over a thousand inmates, I had the smallest hope it wouldn’t be you again," she says. "I should’ve known better, Katherine."
Elena groans under her breath. "Still with that name."
"Excuse me?" Lockwood raises an eyebrow. "Now is not the time for attitude."
Elena straightens slightly. "With all due respect, Warden—I’m not Katherine."
A beat.
"Oh, we’re doing this again," Lockwood mutters. "How many times have you tried this one, hmm? Or are we calling it dissociation now? Temporary insanity?"
"My name is Elena Gilbert. I just arrived today. I was assigned to a cell and then assaulted during roll call. I didn’t start the fight. I reacted."
Lockwood studies her for a long moment, the silence stretching.
"Elena Gilbert," she repeats, voice flat.
"Yes," Elena says quickly. "Please, just check. There’s been some mistake. People keep calling me Katherine. Even the guards. I don’t know who she is, but I’m not her."
The warden leans back, skepticism carved into every feature.
"You do realize impersonating another inmate is grounds for solitary."
"I’m not impersonating anyone! Check your logs. Check the intake. Just—just call wherever this Katherine is supposed to be. If she’s still in solitary, then... I can’t be her."
Warden Lockwood sighs. She picks up the phone, eyes never leaving Elena.
"This is Warden Lockwood. Give me a status update on inmate 901465. Katherine Pierce."
The voice on the other end crackles faintly through the speaker.
Elena can’t make out the words, but she watches the warden’s expression shift—just slightly.
"Confirmed? You’re certain. Thank you."
She places the phone down. Her eyes narrow.
"Well. That’s... unexpected."
Elena doesn’t gloat. She exhales slowly, waiting.
"What now?" she asks.
Lockwood steeples her fingers. "Now, you’re going to explain what happened in Block D. From the beginning."