Chapter Text
“Elena!”
She jolts awake—gasping, chest tight. Her ears ring, and her stomach churns from the echo of sirens. Matt’s voice cuts through it all, shaking her harder than the dream.
His eyes are wide. “The knife, Elena.”
Her head tilts down almost involuntarily. It’s there in her hand—slick metal, red on the blade.
“Please,” he whispers.
And then, flashing lights. Screams in the distance. Yellow tape crisscrossed like prison bars. It all blurs.
She gasps when they cuff her.
She’s breathless when the judge says guilty.
And when the gates of Port Hill Penitentiary close behind her—when the concrete swallows the last sliver of daylight—Elena doesn’t cry.
Not yet.
But Miranda’s scream haunts her still.
-x-x-x-x-
Port Hill Penitentiary. West Virginia. Maximum security. 5,856 inmates. 1,500 staff. Zero second chances.
Elena stares through the steel mesh of the van’s window, reciting those facts in her head like a shield. She’d read them after sentencing. Her photographic memory never lets her forget them.
She’s not supposed to be here. She knows that.
But that doesn’t matter now.
“Lowell. Dropping off a newbie.”
They hand her off like a package. Chains at her wrists, ankles, torso. The desk guard doesn’t even glance up.
“No photo?” he asks.
“Didn’t take,” one of the escorts mutters. “Said the system glitched.”
Elena barely hears them. Her pulse drowns everything out. Her skin crawls with the weight of unseen stares.
Then the gate buzzes. And she walks into hell.
-x-x-x-x-
Block D.
It opens with a screech of hydraulics and a blast of artificial light.
Elena steps forward, legs stiff. The moment she crosses the threshold, every voice in the common area drops.
Whispers follow:
“Out already?”
“Where’s short and sweet?”
“She looks different…”
Different? Who?
The whispers tangle in her head. She keeps her chin high. She doesn’t duck her head, doesn’t falter. She knows better. Weakness is blood in the water.
Up a flight of stairs. The guard stops at a cell. They unlock her chains with methodical, impersonal tugs—ankles, waist, wrists.
“You’ll get orientation tomorrow,” one mutters.
Then they’re gone.
Just like that, she’s alone.
Elena steps inside. The cell’s small. Yellowed sink. White toilet. Bunk beds bolted into concrete. Two pillows and folded blankets sit neatly on the bottom bunk, untouched.
Nobody here.
She rubs her raw wrists and hoists herself onto the top bunk.
She’s not even halfway up when a voice stops her cold.
“Kat? They let you out early?”
Elena freezes.
A blonde stands in the doorway. Long braid. Strange accent. Pretty in a soft, almost old-fashioned way. But it’s her tone that makes Elena tense—casual familiarity. Like they’re old friends.
“Huh?” Elena says stupidly. “What are you talking about?”
The girl steps in, squints at her, and tugs a strand of her hair.
“You went to a salon or something? Your hair’s straight.”
“It’s naturally straight,” Elena snaps, stepping back.
The girl just frowns. “You’re joking, right?”
A bell rings. A shout outside. Elena barely processes it as the girl pulls her by the arm and nudges her toward the cell door.
“Come on. You know the drill.”
I really don’t, Elena thinks, but everyone else is already standing outside their cells.
Including another blonde—taller, leaner, sharper. She nods at Elena like they know each other.
Oh god, Elena realizes. They think I’m someone else.
The guards come in fives. One for every five cells. A clipboard, a baton, and a permanent scowl.
Names are called. Doors checked. Cells cleared. A shakedown, someone says, grumbling their complaints.
“Pierce, it says here you finally got a cellmate. Where’s…”
She squints. “Gilbert. Elena Gilbert?”
“I’m Elena Gilbert,” Elena says.
The two blondes whip their heads toward her like synchronized dancers.
Even the guard frowns like she’s heard a joke she doesn’t appreciate.
“It says Gilbert was signed in. Where is she?”
“I am Elena Gilbert.”
Kilton’s scowl turns vicious. Her baton swings up fast—no hesitation.
The first strike slams into Elena’s cheek.
Crack.
Pain explodes across her face. Her neck snaps to the side. Red floods her vision. Her legs stagger beneath her.
And then she moves.
Elena lunges—pure adrenaline. Fist to jaw. She throws Kilton off balance, tackles her down. Elbow, palm, another punch—she hits until hands pull her back.
“Get off!”
She twists, kicks, claws—but someone else has taken her place. A woman with a shaved head, wailing on Kilton like she’s got a personal vendetta.
Shouting breaks out.
Then screams.
Then chaos.
It spreads like fire.
The cell block erupts.
Elena stumbles back as more inmates jump in. Guards rush forward. Somewhere, a tray goes flying. A siren blares overhead.
A full-on riot.
Elena’s heart stammers wildly. She drops to her knees, fists clenched, blood on her palm—hers? Kilton’s? She doesn’t know.
“Are you insane?” the second blonde hisses, crouching beside her. “What the hell was that?”
“I’m not who you think I am,” Elena says, chest heaving.
The accent-blonde presses her wrist to Elena’s forehead, confused. “What happened to you in solitary?”
“I’ve never been to solitary,” Elena snaps, knocking the hand away. “I just got here.”
They share a long look. Suspicion creeping into disbelief.
“You’re not… Katherine?” one of them asks slowly.
“No,” Elena insists. “I’m Elena Gilbert.”
The noise behind them dies down—somehow. A voice shouts something across the tiers, and the sea of inmates parts.
A circle forms on the ground level.
The guards are on their knees, bruised, some bleeding. Half the block lines the railings above. Watching. Waiting.
They’re looking at her.
A girl next to her nudges her forward. The blondes flank her, tension rolling off them in waves.
It feels like a test. Like a ceremony she doesn’t understand.
Then more guards flood in.
Dozens.
Riot shields. Guns. Commands barked sharp and fast.
“Back against the wall!”
“Clear the block!”
Elena gets yanked back just before the perimeter seals.
One officer scans the destruction. His voice cuts through the noise:
“Warden wants to know what happened. Who started this?”
All eyes swing to Kilton.
She’s standing again—bloodied, limping. But her voice is clear.
She points.
“That one,” she snarls. “She started it.”
Elena’s stomach sinks.
It’s official now.
Her first day in Port Hill, and she’s already lit a match she can’t put out.