Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

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 fists. 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."

Chapter Text

Solitary: (of a place) secluded or isolated; done or existing alone.

Solitary.

Despite the mess of mistaken identity and a riot she didn’t mean to start, Elena Gilbert now sits alone, shivering slightly on a thin mattress, in a cement box lit only by a single flickering bulb.

Back on the wall. Ass on a cot. Hands cuffed again, like muscle memory.

The door slammed shut behind her hours ago, but the sound still echoes in her skull like a metal echo chamber. She’d tried to explain everything—how Kilton had struck first, how she hadn’t meant to start a fight. But Warden Lockwood hadn’t blinked.

"I can’t have prisoners thinking they don’t have to respect the guards," she’d said evenly, almost bored. Like her decision was just an unfortunate necessity.

As if respect had ever been part of the equation.

Now Elena sits in the dim, chewing the inside of her cheek, blinking against the murk. Her wrists ache. Her thoughts won’t stop moving.

She shifts, arms curling in tight against her ribs, trying not to notice how empty the cell feels. The air is stale. The cot beneath her creaks when she breathes too hard. She wishes she could see the sky—just a sliver of it—but there are no windows. Just this box. Just her.

She’d scrub toilets for a week if it meant getting out. Garbage duty. Anything. This—this silence—is worse than pain.

Time stretches, slow and surreal. Eventually, she lies back.

Her mind starts pacing.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Again.

Like it’ll change something.

She rolls onto her left side. The wall is cold against her cheek. Her own breath sounds too loud. The fan above spins with a lazy mechanical whirr—proof that time hasn’t stopped, even if it feels like it has.

“They weren’t kidding about solitude,” she mutters into the dark.

A voice answers.

“No duh.”

Elena bolts upright.

She stares toward the door, heart thudding. No one. Just the dull, knife-thin line of light beneath it. Her mouth goes dry.

"You're probably wondering where my voice is coming from," the girl continues, casual and unbothered.

Elena doesn’t respond right away, then realizes—of course the girl can’t see her. Her voice feels weirdly close, but bodiless.

"I'm next door. The vents between some cells are close enough to talk through. Weird, right?"

Elena glances around, still can’t spot the vent. Just shadows.

"Uh… do you know what time it is?" she asks, needing something normal to hold onto.

"Beats me. I lost track after the second hour. Or maybe the third? Who even knows down here."

Silence again.

Elena strains to hear breathing—proof this isn’t in her head. The cell’s made her twitchy, like her own thoughts are turning on her.

She wonders—this girl, this voice. Katherine. The one everyone keeps mistaking her for. She was supposed to be in solitary too, wasn’t she?

Could this be her?

It would explain everything. The resemblance. The chaos.

"So," the voice asks, light and curious, “what’d they toss you in here for?”

“A riot,” Elena says, dry as the walls.

The girl whistles, low and impressed. “Nice. Did you at least get to punch someone?”

Elena snorts. “Not really. I think I mostly flailed and got tackled.”

“That counts. If you caused enough chaos to earn a solo box, you’re doing something right.”

“What about you?” Elena asks, her voice warming.

“Got into a fight,” the girl says breezily. “No full-scale rebellion, but hey—it got heated.”

“Sounds like one hell of a fight.”

“You should’ve seen the other girl. She’s in here too, by the way.”

Elena grins faintly. “Did she start it?”

“Definitely, but I might’ve thrown the first punch. Possibly also the tray.”

“Elaborate.”

“It may have been her face. Something about it begged for mashed potatoes.”

Elena actually laughs. “Okay, that’s impressive.”

“I do what I can.”

A pause, not awkward.

“What’s your name?” Elena asks, too casually.

“Oh man. Forgot to say. I’m Bonnie. You?”

“Elena.”

A beat.

“Nice to meet you, Elena. Sorry it’s under such cozy circumstances.”

“Oh yeah. Five-star accommodations.”

“Love the ambiance. Concrete walls, mild psychological breakdown. Real luxury.”

“And this vent system? Top-notch.”

“I know, right? They say connection is dead, but here we are—bonding through ductwork like classy rats.”

Elena laughs again, fuller this time. It feels good. Real.

“What block are you from?” Bonnie asks.

“Block D. Just came in today.”

“No way. I’m in D too. Funny we never crossed paths.”

“Like I said—first day.”

“Damn,” Bonnie chuckles. “One hell of a first day.”

“Yeah,” Elena says. “I just want to get out of here.”

“Twenty-four hours?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Seventy-two. Almost done.”

There’s a beat of quiet. Not empty—settled. Elena leans her head against the wall, smiling faintly at nothing.

The silence that follows is lighter. Not quite friendship—but something close. Bonnie’s voice still lingers, dry and easy, like a rope tossed across the gap. Elena exhales, tension loosening in her shoulders. For the first time all day, she doesn’t feel completely alone.

Until the buzz.

The metallic groan of locks disengaging. Footsteps.

Elena sits up as voices approach. A guard yells.

“Bennett! Wake up!”

She scrambles to the narrow slit in her door, peers out.

Two guards stand outside the neighboring cell. A girl emerges—light-skinned, slim, her features pinched with fatigue and impatience.

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters, shaking one guard’s grip from her arm.

Bonnie. The voice now has a face.

Across the hall, another door opens.

Another girl steps out, zipping up the top half of her jumpsuit. Her back is to Elena, hair falling in thick, glossy curls.

Elena's breath snags in her throat.

Even from behind—somehow she knows. Knows the posture. The shape of that jaw. The eerie, impossible echo.

Katherine.

The guards unclip her cuffs like she’s royalty. Like she’s in on something they’re not.

Bonnie passes her, and Katherine lifts her still-bound hands in a dainty wave.

“Hey, Bon Bon.”

Bonnie doesn’t answer. Just glares and keeps walking.

Katherine glances toward Elena’s cell but doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speak. The pair vanish down the corridor.

The silence returns.

Elena lets the slot fall shut, then sinks slowly back onto her cot.

Of course.

Of course she’d been right next door.

She exhales through her nose, lips twitching with something not quite a smile.

One thought floats to the surface—solid, unbothered, weirdly certain.

What a bitch.

Chapter Text

Identical: similar in every detail; exactly alike.

Elena can only guess it’s sometime in the afternoon when the guards finally come for her.

Twenty-four hours of solitary—served, signed, sealed, and apparently not severe enough to earn an apology. She’s marched back to Warden Lockwood’s office for what the woman calls an “official warning.” Lockwood’s voice is flat, distracted. Just protocol. Then she’s escorted to Block D like a return-to-sender package. No escort. No cuffs. No fuss.

Just a nod toward the Block D entrance. Like she’s supposed to know where to go.

Maybe she should be grateful for the small mercy of walking in on her own—but it feels more like she’s being tossed into open water. High school cafeteria vibes, post-social death. Everyone looking. Everyone talking. Everyone choosing sides before she even speaks.

She exhales slowly.

She doesn’t know exactly what happened last time. What she does know: she started a riot. Not on purpose. Not with intent. But it happened. Because they thought she was someone else.

She reminds herself it wasn’t her fault. Kilton struck first. She defended herself. But nerves don't care about logic. And she’s learned already—guilt doesn't need to be earned to take up space in the body.

The buzzer growls. The door creaks open.

Elena walks in.

Just like before, the air shifts. Conversations halt. Eyes lift. The hum of the block stills into something quieter, more alert.

This time, the whispers have teeth.

“Weird.”

“Weird? Creepy.”

“Are they related?”

“Like one of her wasn’t enough.”

She keeps her gaze forward, jaw clenched, and keeps walking.

She spots Bonnie near the stairs—arms crossed, brows knit, mouth drawn in a tight line. Her gaze pins Elena with a strange weight. Not judgment exactly. Not trust either. Something in between. Like she’s trying to make sense of what she’s seeing and doesn’t like any of the answers.

Elena meets her eyes, briefly.

Bonnie blinks, then looks away. Elena does the same.

She climbs to the second level, steps slowing as her cell comes into view—D276. It should be quiet. Instead, a small crowd hovers outside. Ten, maybe more. Bodies angled toward the door. Whispering. Watching.

She checks the numbers. D268. D270. D272. D274. D276.

Yep. Her cell.

The closer she gets, the more the group begins to scatter. A ripple of silence moves through them like instinct. Some nod in acknowledgment. Others drop their eyes like it burns to look. The hush from her first arrival returns—quieter this time, but more focused.

Inside, only three remain: two blondes—and her.

She’s crouched at the bottom bunk, sliding something beneath a pillow. One of the blondes—sharp-boned, elegant—touches her shoulder and tips her head toward the door.

The girl turns.

Elena freezes.

It’s like staring into a mirror that doesn’t quite reflect. Her own face—duplicated, sharpened, reframed. Same eyes. Same bone structure. Same height. Same everything, except for the loose curls spilling over one shoulder and a fresh cut at the corner of her lip.

But it’s not the features that stun her. It’s the way the girl moves. The way she looks at Elena—not with confusion or recognition, but with an amused kind of detachment. As if she’s been expecting this moment and already finds it boring.

“You guys weren’t kidding,” the girl says. Her voice is dry, her smirk lopsided. Like Elena is an inside joke everyone’s already heard.

The other blonde nudges the first. “Come on, Rebekah. Let’s go.”

Without another word, they slip past Elena and vanish down the corridor.

Now it’s just her.

And Katherine.

The air between them thickens, stretched taut across the narrow cell. Katherine tilts her head, eyes scanning Elena with calm precision. No shock. No denial. Just observation. As if she’s seen a thousand versions of herself and finds this one merely… adequate.

“You must be Elena,” she says.

Elena swallows, her voice tight. “And you must be Katherine.”

Katherine doesn’t confirm it. She doesn’t have to. She simply shifts, turns, and climbs onto the lower bunk with an effortless sort of ownership. Her body language says: this space is mine. You just happen to live here.

Elena hesitates, then steps toward the ladder. Her pillow and blanket are still tucked at the top. A small detail. A small comfort. She climbs, settling onto the upper bunk, legs folded beneath her.

The silence that follows is not comfortable. But it isn’t hostile either. It’s waiting. Fragile. Like both of them know a single word could shatter whatever fragile balance is keeping them from tearing into each other.

She’s heard the word before—doppelgänger. A copy. An echo. A living coincidence. Bad luck, the legends say.

She thinks about her adoption records. Her unanswered questions. The long silence where her origin story should be.

Is this fate? Family? Or just another mistake?

She lies back, staring up at the low ceiling.

Don’t go there.

Even if it’s true, even if Katherine is a piece of some deeper puzzle—she doesn’t want to know. Not yet. Not today.

The bell rings, sharp and impersonal.

Katherine slides off the bed without looking at her and heads for the door. Elena follows, boots hitting the ground harder than they should.

It’s time for roll call.

They line up outside their cell. Katherine on her left. Rebekah and Caroline beside her. Katherine leans in toward Caroline, voice soft and casual.

“Did you talk to her? It’s fine, seriously.”

Elena misses Caroline’s response—if there even is one.

Three guards approach, checking cells. The one calling names has the same clipboard. Not Kilton this time. Her badge reads A. Fields. She stops in front of them, eyes sweeping the line.

She pauses on Elena. Two other guards walk into 276.

“Gilbert,” she says. Then she hesitates—just a beat—and looks at Katherine.

Back. And forth. Back again.

Something flickers behind her eyes. Disbelief? Unease? A question she won’t ask aloud.

Her mouth opens—then closes.

She moves on.

“Pierce. Forbes. Mikaelson. Renfield. Lowing.”

Names echo down the line.

Elena glances sideways.

Katherine is watching her. Eyes narrowed, trailing slowly down her body and back up again. A full scan, unapologetic.

“What?” Elena mutters, trying to sound unaffected.

Katherine shrugs, barely moving. “Don’t ask me. I don’t speak for them.”

Them.

Elena glances across the block.

Women on every level are watching. Some whisper. Some gawk. A few exchange glances like they’ve seen something they weren’t meant to.

Her neighbours—Isles and Anderson—snap their heads away the moment she looks left.

She grits her teeth. Part of her wants to scream at all of them. Instead, she turns back to Katherine.

“What the hell is going on?”

Katherine’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite a smirk.

“Ask the universe,” she says, like it’s a punchline to a joke only she gets.

The buzzer blares. The crowd scatters. Cells begin to close.

Elena steps back into the room. The door slides shut with a final metallic thunk.

The air seems heavier now. The room smaller.

Katherine moves to the desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a small black notebook. She flips it open and scans the page, brows twitching in thought. Then she settles back on the lower bunk, notebook in hand.

Elena climbs the ladder again. As she passes, her gaze lands on the page.

Tiny letters. Numbers. Neatly spaced lines. Not words. Not sentences. Just… sequences.

Coordinates? Codes? Times?

The longer she stares, the more it feels like the page is staring back.

She rolls onto her side, eyes on the concrete wall, breath slow and shallow.

No words. No questions. Not yet.

The lights cut out.

She is officially locked in.

In a cell barely the size of her old bathroom.

With a girl who wears her face like it only belongs to her.

Just her luck.

Chapter Text

Incentive: a thing that motivates or encourages one to do something; a payment or concession to stimulate greater output or investment.

When they said there’d be an orientation, Elena assumed something vaguely helpful—maybe a tour. 

What she got was a single crumpled sheet of paper handed off like a receipt. A half-baked schedule listing times for meals, yard, visitation, laundry. No map. No directions. Her first full day back from solitary, she couldn’t even find the bathroom.

That was three days ago.

Now—five days in—she sits alone in the cafeteria, staring at a tray of what might once have been food. It smells like damp salt and industrial regret. The meat’s unidentifiable, the color somewhere between gray and beige. 

She nudges it with her spoon and opts instead for the carton of milk. 

Sealed, cold, and at least unlikely to kill her.

"Annoying, isn’t it?"

A tray clatters down across from her. Elena looks up, startled.

Bonnie slides into the seat like she owns it—like there’s no question she belongs there, no hesitation in breaking invisible rules. As if they’ve already decided to be friends and Elena just missed the memo.

“Sorry?” Elena asks.

"The stares," Bonnie says, jerking her chin toward the rest of the cafeteria.

Elena follows her gaze.

Eyes again. Whispering. Gawking. Like someone hit rewind on the same broken reel—curious, suspicious, waiting. As if, any second now, her face might twitch and reveal some new trick.

"Right," Elena mutters. "That."

"You’d think by now they’d figure out your face isn’t gonna peel off or shoot lasers."

"That would be nice."

"The face-melting or the shutting up?"

"Whichever one ends faster."

Bonnie laughs—low and dry, all ease and knowing. It cuts through Elena’s tension like it’s paper-thin. There’s something practiced about it. Disarming. Like she knows exactly how much levity a moment can hold before it breaks.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Where you from?”

“Mystic Falls.”

“Age?”

“Nineteen.”

“What’d you do?”

Elena hesitates.

“Pass.”

Bonnie lifts a brow but doesn’t press. She just shifts and launches into her own story like it’s not a flex: hacking, cyber sabotage, a blackout across five counties.

“We were trying to make them listen. They were dumping toxic waste into protected forestland. I made a few systems blink. Accidentally knocked the whole grid out for a week.” She shrugs like it happens to everyone.

"Bet that made a statement." Elena says.

"Yeah. Ten years, minimum."

They both laugh. It surprises Elena how easily it comes out of her. She hadn’t realized how loud her own silence had gotten until Bonnie cracked it open.

"But I gotta say," Bonnie adds, pushing her tray away, "you and Katherine? It’s wild.”

“We’ve established I’m cursed,” Elena says, dry.

“It’s more than just the face. You’ve both got that same stare—like you’re deciding if it’s worth the effort to burn everything down.”

Elena stares. “We’ve barely spoken.”

“Still. You’ve got her scowl down cold. Very chic.”

"You’re not gonna ask if we’re clones or secret twins?"

Bonnie snorts. "Please. Caroline and Rebekah practically grew up with her. If there were a long-lost twin, it would’ve been screamed down the block by now."

"Charming circle."

"If loyalty was currency, Isobel would be filthy rich.”

“Who? You’re the second person whose mentioned that name.”

Bonnie gives her a look like she just asked who the president is.

"Right," she mutters. “Newborn. You’ll know her when you see her. Dark hair. Darker mood. Runs D-block like she was born with the deed. You’ll meet her. Eventually.”"

"Should I be nervous?"

"Only if you make her nervous. Same with Sage. They don’t run this place on paper—but the guards don’t run it either."

Elena has heard the murmurs already. Power clusters. Names whispered in hallways. Warnings disguised as gossip.

Bonnie confirms it all with a shrug, like it’s just the weather.

"Every block’s got someone who can make things happen. D-block’s lucky—we’ve got two. Sage and Isobel. They hate each other with the kind of passion you usually need therapy for.”

She flicks her chin toward a cluster of women halfway across the cafeteria. The redhead in the center sits like a flame, attention orbiting her. Six women ring her like moons—watching, waiting.

"That’s Sage," Bonnie says. "The one with the scar on her cheek? Don’t mistake the charm for mercy."

Elena keeps her expression still, but the wheels are turning.

There’s something sharp in the way the woman smiles. Something that says she enjoys taking control—and might not stop at control.

Bonnie doesn’t hide her scowl.

"If I were you," she says, "I’d stay out of it. That kind of power eats people alive."

Elena nods. “Noted."

They dump their trays and head out, footsteps echoing under flickering lights.

At first, it’s just the low thrum of hallway noise. But then—voices. Tense, raised, sharp with edge.

Bonnie slows. Elena follows her gaze.

Up ahead, near the back corridor, a crowd clusters tight. No guards in sight. No one moving. Just a knot of bodies all facing the same direction—silent, charged, watching.

Two girls pass Elena and Bonnie, whispering.

"They’re still trying."

"Idiots," the other mutters—until her eyes land on Elena. Then she falls silent.

Bonnie raises her brows. Jerks her head. Let’s go see.

They push toward the noise. The crowd parts, and Elena sees why.

Katherine stands in the centre. Blood glistens at the corner of her mouth, but she’s smiling. It’s not a friendly smile—it’s sharp, calculated.

The woman across from her—blonde, broad-shouldered, unfamiliar—cracks her knuckles.

"That your best strategy? Swing and hope?" Katherine asks, voice silky.

Elena’s breath sticks in her throat. There’s blood, yes—but it’s the smile that does it. Like a wolf halfway through a kill.

The blonde snarls and charges.

Katherine steps aside with almost lazy precision, grabs her wrist, and slams her down with a kick to the back of the knee.

"Try again," she says sweetly. "Slower this time."

The woman—Sierra, someone mutters—scrambles back to her feet, red-faced and panting.

Then she draws a blade from her waistband.

Gasps ripple through the crowd. 

Katherine wipes her lip, tilting her head like she’s unimpressed with the theatrics.

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” she says, voice still light, almost amused.

Sierra rolls her neck once, slow and cracking, like she’s limbering up for something final.

“I’m just giving the people what they want,” she says, voice low. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Her gaze flicks to the silent crowd, then back to Katherine.

“And what they want is to watch you bleed.”

Around them, no one moves. No one breathes.

Elena can feel it—the moment hanging like a match over gasoline. One wrong breath and it goes.

“Careful.” Katherine Crowds turn fast. Especially on losers.”

Sierra’s smile twitches, falters. Her jaw flexes. For a split second, she looks like she might lunge—might snap—but she doesn’t get the chance.

“Hey!”

The voice slices through the tension like a blade. Sharp. Authoritative.

The crowd parts on instinct, like muscle memory. Bodies shift back. Elena and Bonnie are shoved aside in the ripple, nearly losing their footing.

A woman steps into the clearing—dark hair, blue jumpsuit, eyes like steel set under pressure.

Bonnie leans close, barely a whisper. “That’s Isobel.”

Sierra doesn’t move. Doesn’t retreat. But she lowers the knife, slow, her shoulders taut like a dog refusing to break eye contact.

“You can’t touch me,” she mutters, defiant.

Isobel doesn’t blink. “You sure?”

Sierra lifts her chin. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Isobel smiles. But it’s not kind. It’s not even human. It’s the kind of smile that happens right before something gets broken.

“You should be.”

Katherine steps forward slightly, blood still at the corner of her mouth. “Isobel, it’s fine—”

Isobel raises a hand without looking. The command in the gesture is absolute.

“Why did you have to step in? And just when it was getting good.” Another figure enters from the far side—red hair, pale skin, jaw sharp enough to cut. Her jumpsuit is pristine. Her voice clipped.

Sage.

“What’s she done now?” The question is directed to Sierra. 

“She attacked me!” Sierra blurts, eyes jumping between Katherine and Sage, looking for backup—any backup.

Katherine scoffs, unimpressed. “Get over yourself.”

Sage’s eyes lock on Sierra, cold and evaluating. Then she grabs her by the arm—no gentleness, just control—and hauls her a step back.

Her gaze lands on Isobel like a challenge. ““Try training your mutts before they embarrass you.”

Isobel’s smile doesn’t fade.

“I’d worry about yours,” she says sweetly, “they’re already foaming at the mouth.”

The air cracks.

The two leaders hold each other’s gaze. The crowd holds its breath.

Someone behind Elena whispers, “Do it.”

Sage doesn’t move. Neither does Isobel. But something sharper passes between them—too quiet to name, too old to resolve. 

Someone laughs—a single note, high and nervous—and the sound dies in the tension like a bullet.

Three sharp whistles pierce the room—shrill, echoing.

The warning.

The tension snaps. Movement breaks outward. Inmates scatter, vanishing back into their corners like roaches under light. Sierra yanks her arm free and stalks off without a word. Sage follows, posture like a blade still sheathed.

Isobel lingers a moment longer, her gaze flicking once more to Katherine—not with concern, not exactly—but with something colder. Calculated. Something Elena can’t name.

Then she turns and walks. No words. No warning.

The air doesn’t so much clear as it resets. Like a storm passing without ever breaking.

-x-x-x-x-

Later, in the rec room, Elena and Bonnie drop into hard plastic chairs tucked into the back corner, half-hidden from the noise. The buzz of the lights overhead grates like static. Voices ripple around them—laughing, whispering, shifting focus—but Elena still feels the imprint of the knife, the stare, the silence.

She scrubs a hand over her face. “Clashing sides?”

Bonnie leans back, unfazed. “Always.”

Elena glances toward the hallway where Katherine vanished. Her fingers twitch in her lap.

“Why was Sierra after her?”

Bonnie shrugs, but it’s tight at the shoulders. “Rumors. They’re always circling. Today it was a price on her head.”

Elena blinks. “What, like a hit?”

“Mmhmm.” Bonnie taps her fingers on the armrest. “From her own blood.”

The words land like a slap. Elena’s mouth opens—then shuts. “Her family?”

“You’ve heard of Franklin & Pierce Industries, right?”

Elena sits forward. Her pulse skips.

“Yeah. Of course. Tech. Pharma. Real estate—basically half the country.” She pauses. “Wait… the murder case. Viktor Pierce.”

Bonnie nods. “That was her grandfather.”

Elena stares. It hits all at once—the headlines she half-read, the images she ignored. Viktor Pierce found dead. His son Tobias crucified by the media. The corporate empire shaking under scandal. But Katherine? She’d barely made the coverage.

“I thought it was the son on trial.”

“He was,” Bonnie says. “Until it wasn’t him anymore. Midway through, the evidence shifted. Katherine got hauled in. Quietly. Convicted even quieter.”

“And no one noticed?”

“They made sure of it. Big money doesn’t just make noise—it buries it. She swore she was framed. But her last name was worth too much to protect her.”

Elena falls back in her seat, stunned. “Jesus.”

Bonnie huffs. “Money doesn’t forgive. It erases. And it pays damn well to keep bloodlines clean.”

The weight of it settles on Elena like dust in her lungs.

Katherine Pierce. Accused of murdering her billionaire grandfather. Forgotten by the press. Hunted in prison.

And still walking like the whole place owes her breath.

Elena thinks of cuffs, of courtroom whispers, of the metal taste of injustice. She thinks of that night. His blood. Her hands. How quickly people turned. How fast belief vanished.

She looks down at her own wrists. Clean now. But the memory burns.

“You believe her?” she asks, voice low.

Bonnie tilts her head. “I believe this place doesn’t care if you’re innocent. That’s not the game.”

“But do you think she is?”

A beat of silence.

“I think she’s dangerous,” Bonnie says at last. “Which isn’t the same thing.”

Elena swallows.

She doesn't know if that answer scares her more—or comforts her.

Because if Katherine’s innocent... that makes two of them.

And if she’s not—

Then Elena’s staring at the future no one warned her about.

One step behind, and already too close.

Chapter Text

Rare: (of an event, situation, or condition) not occurring very often; of a thing) not found in large numbers and consequently of interest or value.

Last week, Elena saw a flyer pinned to the cafeteria bulletin board—bold, capitalized text shouting across the cork: BLOOD DRIVE — RETURNING.

She’d asked Bonnie. That’s what she does lately—when the rules twist too tight or the days blur, she asks Bonnie. It’s easier than admitting how little she knows. Bonnie has a way of speaking like she’s been here forever. Like this place answers to her, not the other way around.

"I’ve never done it," Bonnie had said as they walked back toward their cells. "But yeah. It’s real. The Red Cross runs it. You donate, they draw, they leave."

"So it’s just... charity?"

"Charity with perks," Bonnie replied. Then, dry: "Blood’s blood. Doesn’t matter where it comes from. Though I hear some people skip it because of, y’know... habits."

She mimed a needle. Not subtle. Elena didn’t press. Smuggling isn’t a rumor in here—it’s infrastructure.

"Do you get anything for donating?"

"Other than virtue points? Yeah. Sometimes you get extra rec time. Sometimes a better job post—like working admin or sorting mail instead of trash duty."

Elena had pictured it—a blue jumpsuit, a busted bin, the yard lined like a chain gang from an old black-and-white film.

"We actually pick up trash?"

"Only around here. Not downtown or anything."

"Why haven’t you done it then?"

"Because needles," Bonnie said flatly. "And because bleeding voluntarily in a prison full of predators doesn’t exactly feel smart."

That had made Elena laugh—her first real one in days. Bonnie had only smirked. "Are you thinking about it?"

Elena shrugged, smirking, "Wouldn’t hurt."

Bonnie scoffs. 

-x-x-x-x-

Two days later, she wakes at the alarm. The cell is pale and quiet in the dim light. She peeks over the top bunk and sees Katherine at the sink, inspecting the thin scab along her cheekbone—the one Sierra left behind.

For all her bravado, she checks the wound like it’s sacred. Gentle. Almost clinical. Like if she tracks it long enough, it’ll tell her something worth knowing.

Elena climbs down, stretching. Her shoulder twinges. "It’ll take more than four days for that to heal," she says.

She means it informationally. Not as a jab.

Katherine’s eyes meet hers in the mirror. Cool. Dismissive.

"Thanks, genius."

Elena clenches her jaw. Leaves before she says something she’ll regret. Outside the cell, Caroline and Rebekah brush past her. Caroline throws a glance over her shoulder but doesn’t stop.

-x-x-x-x-

After breakfast, Elena veers toward the rec room—until a voice cuts across the hall.

"Gilbert!"

It’s Mervins. Clipboard. Cheerful. One of the only guards who doesn’t treat her like a stain.

"You signed up to donate to the ARC, right?"

Elena nods.

"Follow me."

She spots Bonnie in the crowd—waving lazily, not moving from her seat. Elena smiles faintly, then follows Mervins down a maze of sterile corridors. They gather more girls as they go—strays from other blocks. Few from D.

Eventually, they’re funneled into a common room twice the size of the cafeteria. A woman in civilian clothes—lanyard, clipboard, power stance—steps up onto a small riser.

"Good morning, ladies. I’m Evelyn from the American Red Cross. Thank you for volunteering. To keep things moving, we’ll separate you by blood type. If you’re unsure of yours, we’ll test you before the draw."

She gestures toward a row of doors labeled with bold letters: A, B, O, AB, each split by + or -.

The crowd breaks. Buzzing motion. Elena waits, then makes her way toward the nearly empty AB- door.

Only one person sits inside.

Katherine.

Elena stops cold. 

Katherine sits like she’s been here longer than time, like the room was made to contain her.

She looks up—eyes flat, unsurprised.

For a second, it feels like Elena’s the copy. The mistake.

Her body moves anyway. 

She steps in before the rest of her can catch up, settling across from her. A second passes. Then a third. 

Katherine doesn’t look again.

A woman enters with brown hair and kind, brisk eyes.

"Ah, you must be Katherine and Elena," Andrea beams, oblivious.

She points to the wrong one for each name. Neither of them correct her.

"Two AB-negatives? That’s incredibly rare. Less than one percent of the population. And twins, too. Incredible."

She laughs, breezy. "You really could’ve fooled me—same blood, same face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you planned it."

Katherine stiffens. Elena flinches.

"Anyway—" Andrea gestures to the clipboards on the table. "Just a short screening before we begin."

Elena picks one up slowly. Name. Address. Blood type. Birthday.

She hesitates. Looks up.

“Hey, Katherine. What’s your birthday?”

Katherine doesn’t move at first. 

“Seriously?”

"Humor me."

A beat.

"June."

Elena waits.

"Fifth."

Elena says the year aloud—her year.

Katherine raises a brow.

Three things: same face. Same blood. Same birthday.

Elena huffs. Low. Disbelieving. "You’re fucking with me."

Katherine exhales sharply. Almost a laugh. 

"I’m not doing this today," Katherine says abruptly, rising like she never meant to sit.

The staffer—Andrea—reappears. "Is everything okay?"

"I hate needles," Katherine says without looking back.

She walks out.

Elena stares at her form disappearing from view.

Her hands sit stiff over her knees.

Andrea's questioning look is ignored and she sombers, instead asking, "Finished the form?"

Elena nods.

"We’ll begin shortly."

Elena nods again, but her head feels miles from her body. The clipboard in her lap lists a name she’s worn like a jacket—Elena Gilbert—but now it hangs strange on her skin.

She always thought the questions were about her past. Adopted. Sealed records. Gilbert on paper, but something else stitched underneath. An origin she didn’t know. But Katherine didn’t walk out of that room like a question. She walked out like an answer Elena never asked for.

Same face. Same blood. Same birthday.

Whatever this is—this overlap, this echo—it doesn’t feel like coincidence. It feels like unraveling.

And whatever thread she just pulled, it’s already too late to stop tugging.

Chapter Text

Work: activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result; be employed in a specified occupation or field.

It’s the next day, and Elena never actually does it.

That is—confront Katherine.

She tells herself it just doesn’t come up. But the truth is, the more she thinks about it, the more she can’t figure out why either of them looked so surprised in the first place. Nothing ever told her they weren’t related. So finding out they are? It doesn’t feel like a revelation. Not really.

Seventeen years with only a brother, then almost a year in jail with no one. She’s gotten good at folding the silence into something livable. Filling in the blanks with pretend answers. But this? Katherine? It doesn’t slot into anything. It lingers.

And now her head aches, a slow thrum behind her eyes as she stares down at the sizzling grill.

“Hey!” a voice snaps. “Quit daydreaming, Gilbert, unless you’re trying to burn down my entire kitchen!”

Elena jolts. Herma. Right. She drops her eyes back to the charred sandwich on the grill. Another one ruined.

Fifth? Seventh?

Herma storms over, eyebrows drawn so tight they might snap. “That must be the tenth one you’ve ruined!”

Elena says nothing. The spatula is pried from her hand.

“Go be useless in the dish pit. Maybe there you can’t burn anything.”

Elena keeps her mouth shut. No point arguing. The back kitchen is steam-heavy and sour with soap. She steps inside, blinking against the fog.

Caroline is already there.

Sleeves rolled, gloves on, humming some old tune as she dunks a tray into a cloudy sink.

“Don’t worry,” she says without looking. “She grows on you. Like mold.”

Elena almost laughs. “Who?”

Caroline jerks her head back toward the kitchen. “Herma. Queen of Carbon. You get used to the yelling.”

“I don’t think I want to.”

Caroline shrugs. “No one does. Doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

The familiarity throws Elena. Caroline hasn’t so much as glanced at her since her arrival. Since she mistook her for Katherine. But now? She’s smiling. Not forced. Not mocking.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” Caroline asks, grinning. “Gloves are over there. Conveyor’s here. Stack, rinse, rack, repeat. C’mon, Stray.”

“Stray?”

“You know—Bonnie’s rescue project.”

Elena chuckles under her breath. The name lands oddly warm.

The work is rhythmic. Rinse, stack, scrub. Elena gets through a few trays before the question slips out.

“So… why are you talking to me?”

Caroline glances over. “Because I feel like it.”

“You didn’t before.”

Caroline shrugs one shoulder. “Bonnie likes you. That’s usually a good sign.”

“You trust her judgment?”

“Over yours? Absolutely.”

Elena laughs before she means to. Caroline smirks.

“But also,” Caroline continues, “maybe it’s because Katherine’s not here. Maybe it’s because I got tired of pretending you weren’t.”

“She hates me, huh?”

“No. She just doesn’t like being surprised.” Caroline wipes a hand across her forehead. “And you were definitely a surprise.”

Elena tilts her head. “And Rebekah?”

“Rebekah hates everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

Elena smiles faintly. “And you?”

“Didn’t really get around to deciding.”

They work in silence for a beat. Then Caroline says, quieter, “Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends now.”

Friends. The word settles somewhere Elena didn’t expect.

“Sure,” she says. “Yeah. Okay.”

“So,” Caroline pivots, “how long have you been here now?”

“Few weeks. Maybe more. I’ve kind of lost track.”

“First kitchen shift?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure they stuck me here because I put down ‘cooking’ on my intake sheet.”

Caroline snorts. “What do you actually cook?”

“Microwave noodles. Once set them on fire, though.”

The blonde cackles, leaning on the edge of the sink. “God. Okay, I like you.”

Elena smiles.

Caroline grins. “You also probably know the place by now, right?”

She nods. “Mostly. We’re locked down half the time.”

“Cards, then. Or chess. I can never beat Kat—” She stops short. Winces.

Elena raises a brow. “Did she tell you about yesterday?”

Caroline blinks. “What about it?”

“The blood drive. We got sorted together. She left.”

Caroline nods slowly. “After you confirmed the twin thing.”

“It wasn’t exactly a surprise.”

“No. But it makes it real.”

“Then why won’t she talk to me?”

Caroline leans on the sink with a steady huff. “Where are you from?”

“Mystic Falls.”

She raises her brows. “That a real place?”

“Apparently.”

“I’ve never heard of it. And I don’t think Katherine has either.” 

Not a lot of people have.

“You know,” she says after a beat, quieter now, “she really was surprised yesterday. Katherine. I don’t think she expected it to hit her either.”

Elena looks up. “Did she say anything to you?”

“No. But… Around her. It’s not always what she says.”

“I just don’t get it,” Elena says. “I didn’t ask to show up here with her face.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Caroline looks down into the sink, hands still in the water. For a moment, she just watches the bubbles rise and pop. Then she pushes a cleaned tray toward Elena—gentle, like an olive branch. 

“Kat runs cold, even when she cares. I don’t know why she’s closed off. Just… give her time.”

Elena lets out a dry laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Time’s the one thing we’ve got in here. Still feels like I’m the only one paying for it.”

“I doubt you’d have to wait long,” says a voice from the door. “It shouldn’t be too far off.”

Both girls look up.

Isobel. Polished. Composed. Standing like she owns the room.

Caroline stiffens, her fingers curling around the edge of a tray. Elena notices.

“What are you doing here?” Caroline asks, a smile on her face but her voice is taut.

“Just checking on the kitchen,” Isobel says. Her eyes land on Elena. “So. Elena Gilbert. Mystic Falls. What were your parents’ names?”

Elena stills. It takes a beat for her to reply.

“Why?”

“I know a few Gilberts.” Isobel smiles. “I might know them. Horatio. Melanie. Grayson and Miranda?”

The names hit harder than expected. Elena stares. For a second, the heat of the kitchen falls away.

Grayson. Miranda.

Not names she forgot—names she learned not to say out loud.

The last words she heard from them were in a courtroom. Their backs turned. Their faces blank.

The verdict had come in. Guilty. And they hadn’t said a thing.

She stares at Isobel like she’s hallucinating. “How do you know those names?”

Isobel only smiles wider. “Just seeing what rings a bell.”

“Gilbert! Forbes!” Herma roars from the kitchen. “Trash duty!”

Caroline grabs the bin like it might anchor her. Elena follows, pulse too fast.

They toss the bags into the dumpster. The air outside is sharp with rot and chill.

Elena breaks first. “She said my parents’ names.”

Caroline throws in the last bag with force. “I heard.”

“How does she know them?”

“I don’t know. But don’t go asking.”

“I thought you were on her side.”

Caroline doesn’t answer right away. Then she turns, jaw tight. “Isobel doesn’t have sides. She has leverage. And she knows how to use it.”

The words aren’t loud, but they land hard.

Elena watches her, surprised by the sudden edge.

They stand there a beat longer, the sour stink of the dumpster curling in the air. Then Caroline grabs the cart handle, metal squealing faintly as she pushes it toward the door with a little too much force.

Elena hesitates, then follows. “You really don’t like her.”

Caroline’s laugh is soft. Dry. “That obvious?”

“Kind of.”

The blonde shakes her head. 

“She ignored Katherine for weeks when she first got here,” she says without looking at Elena. “Didn’t give her the time of day. Then, out of nowhere, she’s got a ‘connection.’ Starts dropping hints. Says she knows who her parents are.”

Elena frowns. “Her parents… the Pierces?”

Caroline glances at her, and something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or wariness. She slows her steps. The cart squeaks as it rolls over a crack in the floor.

“No.” She hesitates. “Not the ones who raised her.”

Elena blinks. “You mean… our parents.”

Caroline nods once, almost reluctantly. “Yeah.”

That word hangs heavy between them—our.

Elena doesn’t know what to think. Her first instinct is to scoff, to say that’s insane. But it isn’t. Not after yesterday. Not after the matching blood type, the shared birthday. Not when she’s been asking the same questions since she was old enough to realize no one would give her real answers.

Caroline casts her a glance, like she’s weighing whether to say more. 

“So,” Elena straightens, “does she? Isobel, I mean.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Kat didn’t even want to believe it at first,” she says, more gently now. “But when someone dangles something you’ve never had… it’s easy to want it to be true.”

The words settle between them.

Elena swallows but her eyes are hard.

She gets it.

Elena glances sideways at her—Caroline’s face is calm, but her hands flex on the cart handle like she’s still holding something back. 

Like she’s said too much already.

-x-x-x-x-

When they get back inside, Herma splits them up. Caroline to trays in the hall. Elena to the sink.

The noise from the dish line carries on—metal, water, shouted orders. But Elena doesn’t hear it.

All she hears is that smile in Isobel’s voice. That calculation.

Grayson. Miranda.

Not origin. Not blood.

But still hers. Still the people who raised her. The ones who turned away. Who didn’t show up at her trial. Who didn’t write. Didn’t call.

The ones who believed she did it.

She’s not sure what stings more—that they abandoned her, or that she still wants to believe they had a reason.

And now Isobel—Isobel with her slick smile and smug little checklist of names—walks in like she has the keys to every locked door, dangling their names like bait.

Elena’s hands shake as she scrubs a dish too hard, splashing water up her sleeves. She doesn’t even feel it.

She stares down at the soap-scummed sink, at the reflection of herself in the water—and sees someone tired of waiting. She had waited in custody, waited in jail and now here she was. Still waiting in prison. 

If Isobel knows something, why play coy? Why the performance?

Because that’s the game. Because that’s the power.

But what burns hotter than the mystery—hotter than the insult of Grayson and Miranda being weaponized like that—is Katherine.

Katherine, who confirmed they were blood. Who stormed out of the blood drive like a coward and then said nothing. Like it didn’t matter. Like none of this mattered.

Like Elena didn’t deserve to know.

‘You knew,’ Elena thinks bitterly, gripping the edge of the counter.

‘You knew we were related.

You knew there were answers somewhere.

And you said nothing.’

She exhales hard, chest tightening, gloves creaking with the fists she’s made. Her jaw aches with how hard she’s clenching it.

She could go to Isobel. Ask outright. But she won’t—not yet.

Not when Katherine owes her more than silence and a mirror image.

Elena tosses the dish aside, water splashing as it hits the rack.

Her heart is pounding now, furious and fast.

She doesn’t want patience. Doesn’t want breadcrumbs.

She wants answers. And she’s going to get them.

Not eventually.

Now.

Chapter Text

Enough (det, pron, adj): satisfactory, adequate; indicating sufficiency or a tolerable degree; can be used to express the end of an action, a feeling of having had one's fill, or a limit being reached. 

It’s barely past three when Herma throws most of the kitchen crew out like spoiled meat, shouting something about scorched potatoes and wasted rations.

Elena imagines the end of shift would usually bring relief—freedom from stove, grease, and shouting. But today, Elena moves fast. Too fast. Her thoughts surge ahead of her like a flood, all tangled heat and rising pressure. The guards flanking her exchange a glance but say nothing as they pick up pace just to keep up.

When the buzzer sounds and the cell door slides open, she’s already halfway through it. The closing noise hasn’t even died before she charges in. The guards barely peel away—just far enough to stay out of the crossfire. One of them mutters something, but she’s already moving.

Katherine sits at her desk—one leg tucked under her, head propped lazily on her hand, eyes skimming a book. She’s all nonchalance. Composed. Like nothing matters.

Elena slaps the book out of her hands.

"You bitch!"  Elena snaps. It’s not controlled. It explodes out of her, red-hot and splintered. "You knew! You knew and you said nothing—"

Katherine jerks upright, eyes sharp. “What the fuc—?”

"You ran! You knew—we confirmed it—and then you just ran? You walked out like I was nothing—after all of that—and then I find out you’ve been going behind my back with her?"

Katherine’s gaze flicks to the barred door—to the guards are right there, listening.

“Shut up.”

“No. Not this time. You and Isob—”

The slap cuts across her cheek like lightning.

Elena reels back a step, stunned more by the sudden silence than the pain.

"You’re not listening," Katherine snarls. Her voice doesn’t rise—it sharpens. "You think this is about you?"

"You think it’s not?"

She lunges—

But Katherine moves first.

A blur of motion—her palm snaps into Elena’s shoulder, knocking her off balance with practiced force. Elena slams into the edge of the bunk, the metal shrieking against the wall.

“Hey!” One of guards calls out. 

Elena doesn’t hesitate.

She charges again, swinging wildly. It’s messy—angry, desperate—but not without impact. Her fist scrapes Katherine’s collarbone, enough to jar the other girl back a half step.

It’s the only inch she gets.

Katherine grabs her by the collar, drags her forward—close, breath-to-breath.

“You wanna play rough?” she mutters, then shoves her full-bodied into the cinderblock.

Elena snarls, tries to elbow free—but Katherine catches her wrist, forces it down. The hold isn’t cruel. It’s efficient. Absolute.

The door buzzes again, sliding open. 

"I said don’t.”

“Step back!” A guard shouts, “That’s enough!”

But Katherine doesn't let go. Not yet.

“You want answers?” she hisses, right in Elena’s face. “Pick your battles. Or I will.”

Then she lets go—just as the guards storm in.

Elena stumbles, breath furious and short, still half-ready to swing again.

Grant strides in, eyes blazing. “What the hell do you two think this is? A fight club?”

“She started it,” Katherine says dryly.

“You’re not five years old, Pierce.”

“She’s not exactly five pounds either.”

Grant stares between them. “Do I need to separate you two?”

“Yes,” Katherine answers.

“No,” Elena bites out at the same time.

Grant throws up her hands. “Perfect. Great. Fine. Let’s try a little bonding exercise.”

“What—” Elena starts.

“You wanna hit each other?” Grant interrupts. “Okay. Do it somewhere I don’t have to fill out paperwork.”

A moment later, the door slams behind them—thick and steel-plated.

They’re inside a round, concrete cell, about twenty feet in diameter. 

It’s cold. The kind of cold that doesn’t just touch skin but seeps in, settles low in the spine and coils in the joints. It’s not freezing. It’s worse—ambient and steady, like the place hasn’t seen sun in decades despite the open top. 

No beds. No chairs. Just faint bloodstains, a rusted drain, and a grate above the high ceiling where the light slices in narrow beams.

Katherine’s face tightens the moment the door shuts behind them. Not fear. Not surprise. Just tension—like she knows what this place is, and she doesn’t like it.

Elena breathes in shallowly. The cold catches on her teeth. She shivers and curses herself for it, folding her arms, not because it helps but because she hates the idea of Katherine seeing it.

They stand in the middle of the room—two silhouettes in a concrete throat, thirty meters underground and a thousand miles from anything that feels like safety.

Katherine turns slowly in a circle. “Wow,” she says. “Grant went full drama.”

Elena doesn't answer. She’s still shaking. Still boiling.

“You done?” Katherine asks, folding her arms.

“No. I’m not done.” Elena rounds on her. “You knew we were related. You’ve been talking to her. You had answers this whole time—”

“Half-answers.”

“Then why keep it from me?”

Katherine scoffs. “Because this?” She gestures between them. “This is what I was avoiding.”

“You think it’s easier for me?” Elena snaps. “I’ve had no one. And now Isobel walks in with this smug little checklist and just—knows things. About me. About my family. And you—you act like I’m not even supposed to care.”

Katherine’s quiet for a beat. Her brows furrow for a moment, “Where’d you hear it?”

“What?”

“That I’ve been talking to Isobel. Caroline?”

Elena doesn’t reply.

“Thought so,” Katherine mutters, pacing to the wall. “And bits from Bonnie’s little truth-dump factory, no doubt.”

“I don’t care how I found out. I care that I had to.”

Katherine exhales hard. “Alright. Fine. You want a trade?”

“What?” Elena crosses her arms, defensive more than defiant. It never crossed her mind that Katherine would want something from her.

“You ask. I answer. I ask. You answer. That’s how this works.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because I’m not giving you anything for free.”

Elena swallows. “Fine. Ask.”

Katherine tilts her head. “Did you do it?”

The silence stretches long.

“That’s your question?” Elena says bitterly.

“Just making sure you’re not gonna stab me in my sleep,” Katherine replies, too flippant.

“We’ve shared a room for weeks.”

“And now we’re sharing blood. The stakes have changed.”

Elena shakes her head. “I didn’t kill him.”

Katherine’s gaze sharpens. “Who?”

“My brother. Jeremy.”

There it is. Out loud.

“He died,” Elena continues, voice tightening, “and I was the only one there. No proof of anyone else. No sign a struggle apart from me. My prints. My DNA. My blood. And they didn’t look any further.”

“Your parents?”

“They testified against me.” Her voice cracks. “Said I was always unstable. Said they tried to get me help.”

Katherine’s expression doesn’t change. But something flickers there—interest, maybe. Or recognition.

Elena steps closer. “Your turn.”

Katherine leans back against the wall. “Alright. A few months ago, Isobel starts dropping hints. Says she knows who my real parents are.”

“You didn’t believe her?”

“Not at first. I thought she meant the Pierces. But then she described something—something no one could’ve known.”

She pauses.

“I had this necklace. A lapis lazuli in the center. Came with me when I was adopted. Isobel described it exactly. Facets, clasp, the inscription in the back.”

Elena’s hand goes to her throat instinctively. Her necklace is gone—confiscated. But she knows exactly which one Katherine means. An inscription in the back.

Katherine catches the look. “Yeah. You had one too.”

“You still have it?”

“Storage. They took it when I got processed.” She shrugs. “Still. Was enough to convince me she wasn’t bluffing.”

Elena stares. “So what do you know?”

“Our mother’s name was Ilia. Our parents were sixteen. We were born in California. And we were separated right after.”

“Ilia…” Elena echoes.

“Ilia Flemming,” Katherine supplies.

Her eyes widen. “Flemming?”

Katherine’s lips curve—just slightly. 

“The guards call Isobel, Flemming,” Elena says, breath gone cold. “They’re related? I mean, we’re related? With her?”

Katherine shrugs again. “Maybe. If she’s telling the truth, yes. Point is, she knows. And she’s not telling unless she gets something out of it.”

“What does she ask for?”

“Small stuff. Covering someone’s shift. Passing notes. I said no to most of it. But she’s clever. Gives you just enough.”

Elena exhales. All of it hangs in the silence now—Ilia. California. Necklaces. Blood. Isobel.

And still no answers that matter. Not the ones that heal.

Katherine pushes off the wall. “So?”

Elena meets her gaze. It’s tired. Raw. But steady. “We’re not friends.”

“No,” Katherine says. “We’re not.”

“But this? The search—the truth—Isobel?”

Katherine nods once. “We work together.”

Elena hesitates, then extends her hand.

Not steady. Not confident. But real.

Katherine looks at it like it’s a trick. Then, finally, she takes it. Her grip is cool, firm, impersonal.

Not trust. Not yet.

But for a moment, neither of them lets go.

They just stand there, fingers locked, trying to figure out what it means to reach across a mirror.

To call a stranger sister.

To admit—silently—that maybe the loneliness they’ve both dragged behind them like chains has a matching weight.

They release at the same time. No nods. No smiles.

But something shifts in the silence. Not quite understanding. Not quite forgiveness.

Just… the start of something.

And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Trait: a distinguishing quality or characteristic, typically one belonging to a person; a genetically determined characteristic..

Elena notices the difference.

It’s been three days since she and Katherine were thrown into the Silo. Two days since she found the crevice in the wall. And in all that time, they haven’t had a real conversation—only the quiet between them. But that silence no longer feels sharp. It’s neutral, almost tentative. Two women with the same face, trapped in a place where nothing makes sense.

Still, the weight of the map and the key card sits heavy on her mind. That card isn’t just access—it’s power. The maps are blueprints. Katherine has a plan. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not hers alone.

Elena’s halfway through dinner when she realizes Bonnie is missing. Across the cafeteria, Katherine sits with Caroline and Rebekah, their voices low but steady. Sage and Sierra linger nearby, the air thick with murmurs.

Then the laughter starts.

It’s louder than usual, a sharp bark from a woman perched at a nearby table. She leans forward, eyes gleaming like a predator holding court.

“So, you guys know Stacey from Block C? The quiet one who hands out sheets?”

Elena tries to tune her out, focusing on her food—but the atmosphere shifts.

“But you wanna hear something better? The new girl—the one who looks like Katherine?”

The hairs on Elena’s neck lift. She looks up, already feeling the sting before the blade even cuts.

“Turns out she’s in for murder too. Killed her brother. Just like Katherine with her grandpapa.”

The air around the table thickens. The woman’s voice slices through it like a blade.

“Talk about a family trait, am I right?”

Elena hears her own breath—sharp, involuntary. The fork in her hand trembles, then stills.

Red floods her vision. Hot, suffocating.

She rises.

The scrape of chair legs, the clatter of a tray—none of it matters. Only the woman’s smug face, the cruel curl of her lips daring her to react.

A memory flickers unbidden. Blood. Her hands shaking. Jeremy on the ground. His name caught in her throat.

Elena’s voice is low, shaking with something fierce. “Say that again.”

“Touchy.” The woman smirks, turning in the bench and lazily leaning on the table. “Guess the truth hurts.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know a murderer when I see one.”

Then everything narrows.

A high, thin ringing rushes in. The clatter of trays, the distant hum of conversation, even the scrape of metal chairs—all dulls beneath it. Her vision darkens at the edges, a tunnel drawn around one target: the woman and her smug, curling smile.

She’s moving before she registers the thought.

A chair screeches across the floor, a tray crashes somewhere behind her. Someone grabs her arm—she tears free. She barrels into the woman, fist first, knocking them both into the edge of the table. Pain flashes through her knuckles, bright and distant. Blood—hers or the woman’s—smears across her wrist.

The woman shrieks. Swings back. Nails rake down Elena’s jaw, but she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even feel it. It’s rage, pure and unfiltered, boiling from a place so old and buried she didn’t know it was still alive—deep inside, fraying at the edges of control.

The world blurs, but inside her head, the accusation echoes clear: You’re a murderer. You killed your brother.

She hits again.

A punch to the ribs. A twist of her shirt. Then bodies everywhere.

Hands grabbing. Shouts. Chaos.

She elbows someone—hard. A voice yells. She breaks loose again, hair falling into her eyes, breath ragged.

Then strong hands yank her back. 

“Elena.”

Not shouted.

Spoken. Flat. Measured.

And it cuts sharper than a scream.

Katherine.

She’s there, all calm amidst the storm. No wild motion. Just stillness, watching Elena with an expression carved from stone.

“Elena,” she repeats, her tone unflinching. She reaches out—not roughly, not gently either—and grips Elena’s wrist with one hand. The other rises like she might block a hit if it comes. She doesn’t blink.

“Look at me. Breathe.”

Elena can’t. Not really. Her pulse is still roaring in her ears. Her muscles still buzz with leftover violence. But her body slows anyway. Follows the command. Looks.

Katherine’s eyes are unreadable. Not cold, not cruel. Just blank. 

She searches for something—disgust, approval, even triumph. Anything. But Katherine just watches. As if nothing surprises her. As if this, too, was inevitable. Like she’s already moved on.

“You’re done.”

It’s not a suggestion.

“You hear me?” Katherine says again, low and flat. “You’re done.”

Elena stares at her. Heart hammering. Chest heaving.

And she stops.

Just like that, it’s over. The world floods back in—guards shouting, the scrape of boots, someone wailing in the background. She turns, just enough to see the smug woman crumpled on the floor, blood streaked down her face, her nose likely broken.

Someone’s dragging a bench back into place. The room’s spinning.

The word murderer still hangs in the air.

Elena barely notices the cuffs going on.

She’s looking at Katherine again, just for a second. But that face—that stillness—refuses to give her anything. No judgment. No sympathy. Not even anger.

Just the echo of her words.

You’re done.

-x-x-x-x-

The walk to Lockwood’s office feels endless and hollow.

The Warden wastes no time. Five days extra duty. A note on her record.

Elena nods, numb.

-x-x-x-x-

The infirmary is cold—sterile light, antiseptic smells, the faint hum of machines.

Her body aches. Ribs burn with every breath. Knuckles throb.

She sits behind a curtain, finally alone, and the shaking returns in full force.

Elena rubs her head, like that’ll get rid of anything. She breathes, ragged and shallow.

Then the curtain shifts.

A man in a white coat steps in.

“Elena Gilbert?”

She nods.

“I’m Dr. Saltzman. Call me Alaric.” He holds a clipboard, looking up and only pausing for a moment.

There’s a flicker in his eyes—recognition, then a recalibration. Her face, but not her. He doesn’t comment. Just nods it off.

“Mind telling me what happened?”

Elena glances away slowly. “Fight.”

“With who?”

“Someone with a loud mouth.”

He smirks. “Ah. One of those.”

She doesn’t smile.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Side. Hand. Pride.”

He chuckles softly. “Pride’s the toughest. Might need ice.”

She almost laughs.

He checks her hand gently. “No breaks. Just bruises. We’ll clean and wrap.”

She nods.

“Your side’s probably worse. We’ll get a scan.”

The curtain opens again.

Isobel.

She appears like she owns the place, her smile polished—too warm, too knowing.

“Saw the commotion,” she says sweetly, eyes flicking to Elena’s bruised hand. “Didn’t peg you for the scrappy type.”

Elena says nothing.

“She’s lucky you didn’t hit harder,” Isobel says, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Those bruises run deep.”

Elena narrows her eyes, confused. “What do you want?”

Isobel shrugs. “Just checking in. I’m the one doing your scan.”

Alaric watches. “You two know each other?”

“Well, the block isn’t that big, Ric. Of course.”

He nods, moving to the end of the bed to pass the clipboard.

“I’ll prep the table,” she says to Alaric, then to Elena, “Try not to move too much. We want a clear image.”

She sweeps out, leaving the curtain swaying.

Alaric waits a moment, before quietly asking, “Painkillers—now or later?”

Elena meets his gaze, the weight of the day pressing down.

“Now.”

He hands her the pills. Her fingers close over them.

And finally—finally—she exhales.

Chapter Text

Infirmary: a place in a large institution for the care of those who are ill.

“You’ll feel worse tomorrow,” he says, not unkindly. “Bruises always bloom late.”

Elena exhales slowly. “Great.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“If you say so.”

He glances at her then. Not probing—just a quick read. “You’ve got the look of someone who doesn’t like being told when they’re lucky.”

Elena doesn’t answer.

“Not judging,” he adds after a beat. “Just noting the pattern. It’s common around here.”

She shifts her weight slightly, the table squeaking under her. Her ribs ache with the motion.

“Most people snap once,” he says. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

“And if it’s not?”

Alaric closes the chart. “Then you figure out whether you’re trying to survive this place, or punish it.”

Before she can respond, the curtain parts again.

Isobel steps back in, smooth and composed. “Radiology’s ready,” she announces, tablet tucked under one arm.

Elena glares at her sideways, not dignifying that with a response.

“You look like you want to ask something.”

Elena frowns. “What are you even doing here?”

“Helping Alaric,” Isobel says, all breezy confidence. “My job.”

“You work in the cafeteria,” Elena says.

“I did. I do. Shift rotation. I’m a nurse outside these walls—they can’t pass up free labor like that.”

“She’s been helping out with intakes,” Alaric offers with a sigh. “Especially when half the wing fakes illness during lockdown.”

“There was a small fire in Block C,” Isobel adds, eyes glinting. “Bit of smoke. Bit of chaos. You know how it is.”

“It was controlled,” Alaric mutters, pulling on his stethoscope. “No one seriously hurt. Now, sit up.”

Elena obeys, unbuttoning her overalls and peeling them down to her waist. The tank top underneath feels too thin. She glances down at her arms—purpled smudges blooming where adrenaline had masked the pain. Her right knuckles are raw. A scratch runs from her collarbone to her jaw.

“Breathe in,” Alaric instructs.

She does. Regret tightens with the breath. Her side flares. She winces and folds forward slightly.

“Left ribcage,” Alaric mutters. “Possibly fractured. We’ll X-ray to be sure. Isobel?”

“Right hand and left ribs,” Isobel echoes, tapping notes into a tablet. “Scrapes, bruises, no external bleeding.”

Elena exhales as Alaric steps back.

“Isobel will walk you to radiology. After that, she’ll clean you up.”

Elena tenses.

“Any questions?” Alaric asks.

Elena doesn’t answer. She has plenty. None she trusts him—or Isobel—with.

Alaric disappears behind the curtain. Isobel steps forward, smiling like they’re old friends. She places a too-familiar hand on Elena’s arm.

“Come on, Elena. Radiology’s just down the hall. I promise not to bite.”

The walk is cold. The sterile chill of the infirmary seeps into her bruises, reminding her of the Silo—concrete walls, metal dust, the sound of her breath snarling in her throat as fists flew. As her fist flew.

As they start toward the hallway, Isobel glances sideways and says it—light, almost playful:

“You know, you and Katherine—same stride. Same stubborn chin. Same way you lead with your shoulders when you're pissed.”

Elena stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“Just an observation,” Isobel says innocently, holding the door. “You’re more alike than you think.”

Elena steps through, ignoring her.

“I’m just saying,” Isobel smiles faintly, her voice light. “You throw punches just like her. No hesitation.”

The scan room is unremarkable. Linoleum floors. Machine hums. Isobel is brisk with instructions—stand there, raise this arm, don’t move. Elena obeys in silence.

When it’s done, Isobel pulls up the images and tilts the screen toward her.

“No fractures,” she says. “You're lucky.”

Elena doesn’t feel lucky. She feels cracked down the middle in every other way.

Isobel starts gathering supplies. “Give me your hand.”

Elena hesitates, then lifts it.

“You’re quiet,” Isobel says as she dabs at a scrape. “Not like earlier. What happened to the part where you broke someone’s face?”

Elena doesn’t respond. The rage is gone now. What’s left behind is the marrow-deep ache of too many things left unsaid.

“You’re right-handed,” Isobel muses. “Katherine’s left.”

Elena jerks her hand back.

“Why are we talking about her?”

“Why not talk about your sister?”

The word stings. Sister. It’s true, and it still lands like a slap.

“If I wanted answers, I’d ask her.”

“Would she give it?”

Elena looks away before she can stop herself.

Isobel reclaims her hand with surprising gentleness and begins wrapping it. She doesn’t say anything.

“How do you know my parents?” Elena questions, low. Like she doesn’t want to ask. As if it isn’t the only thing that come to mind when she sees Isobel. 

She doesn’t look up. “I’ve met them.”

“When?”

“When I was younger.”

“How?”

Isobel smiles faintly. “And now you’re the demanding one.”

“Why not just tell me?”

“Why should I tell you? In here?” Isobel shrugs. “Everything’s expendable. Everything except leverage.”

Elena’s lips curl. “So we’re bartering now. Just like Katherine.”

“Interesting,” Isobel says, tilting her head and fastening the wrap. “So you have talked. I told you it would only be a matter of time. You’re already picking up her habits.”

Elena flinches again—this time not from pain.

Isobel dabs at a scratch just below her jaw. Elena recoils, placing a hand protectively over her ribs.

“You know what? I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” Isobel doesn’t insist. She just tosses the cotton into the trash. “A guard will escort you back.”

Elena turns toward the door. But Isobel’s voice cuts through, low and deliberate:

“I honestly want to tell you about your real parents, Elena. The ones who weren’t afraid of who you might become.”

Elena pauses. But she doesn’t look back.

Behind her, Isobel hums as she tidies the tray.

Two guards meet her in the hallway. One cuffs her silently.

She’s halfway back to Block D before the words really land: Real parents.

Miranda and Grayson may have turned their backs on her—but they were there. Or seemed to be. She remembers bedtime stories, kissed knees, crayon drawings guided by steady hands. Warm things. Soft. When she was little.

They called her daughter. Tried, maybe—But part of her still clings to those scraps, like they prove she mattered. Like she was theirs, once.

She’s not ready to rewrite that. Not yet.

Not today.

The lights in D Block are already dim. Most inmates are curled under blankets. The familiar hum of silence deepens with each step.

D276. Her cell. The door buzzes open.

Katherine doesn’t stir when Elena enters. Her profile is still, the curve of her spine tucked inward, back facing the room. 

She might be asleep. 

Or pretending.

The cuffs come off. The door buzzes closed.

Elena climbs into bed and curls toward the wall.

Her knuckles throb in time with her ribs. Jeremy’s name sits just beneath the ache, like something still lodged in bone.

Even if she didn’t kill him, he’s still gone. 

Still gone because of her.

She presses her forehead into the thin pillow.

The map. The key card. Katherine. Isobel. Two mothers. And a father she can’t picture without imagining a lie behind his smile.

The silence in the cell stretches. She thinks of Miranda’s voice. Grayson’s hands gripping the wheel. Normalcy. All of it gone in a blink. All of it fake? Or just… not enough?

She doesn’t know what she wants more—answers, or a reason not to need them.

But she wants something. Anything.

Her eyes sting. She blinks hard and lets the dark blur around her.

Eventually, sleep finds her—not gently, not kindly. Just like everything else here.

It takes.

Chapter Text

Inadvertent: not resulting from or achieved through deliberate planning; not meant, sought, or intended : unintentional. an inadvertent violation of the law, etc.

There’s a soft, rhythmic patter. Back and forth. Back and forth.

It wakes Elena before the light does.

She opens her eyes slowly, groggy and sore, vision blurring into the ceiling above. Her body aches, especially at her ribs and hands, and her mouth tastes like metal and sleep.

The sound isn’t a dream. It’s real.

She turns her head. Katherine is pacing.

Shoes landing a little harder than usual, shirt loose at the collar, hair pulled down, she moves like a caged animal — not frantic, but sharp-edged. Calculated in theory, but fraying at the edges. Her hands twitch occasionally, raking through her hair or curling into fists. Her eyes are vacant, fixed somewhere far beyond the concrete.

“What’re you doing?” Elena’s voice is rough, barely louder than the hum of the fluorescent light overhead. She winces as she sits up.

Katherine doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at her.

The pacing continues.

Elena blinks at the narrow windows above the hall. Still dark outside. No hint of dawn.

“Is this about Isobel?” she tries again, quieter this time.

That stops Katherine cold.

Her shoulders tighten. A pause. Then a slow turn — just her head — as she finally looks at Elena. Her expression isn’t angry. It’s unreadable. Like someone standing on the wrong side of soundproof glass.

“I saw her yesterday,” Elena says, trying to sound casual. “When I was in the infirmary.”

She lifts her bandaged hand. “Not broken, by the way. In case you were going to ask.”

Of course, she wasn’t.

Katherine comes closer, standing close to the bunk by her head. She doesn’t meet Elena’s eyes.

“What did she say to you?” she asks, voice low and flat.

“Nothing useful,” Elena shrugs. She watches carefully — for a flinch, a twitch, anything. “Asked me if I wanted to know about our parents. Said she’d tell me... for a price.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

Silence.

“But she said the offer stands,” Elena adds, slowly. “In case I ever get curious.”

Katherine exhales, not quite a sigh, not quite tension. Just release. She glances at Elena’s ribs, but says nothing. There’s something strange in her stillness — too measured, too cold. As if she’s thinking of too many things at once and locking them all behind her teeth.

“So?” Elena asks. “Any advice about Isobel?”

“I don’t know.” Katherine’s voice is quieter now, and harsher. “Honestly.”

“That’s a first.”

Elena expects pushback. She gets nothing.

She studies her sister — if that’s what Katherine really is — and frowns. Katherine looks... worn. Not the slick, composed Katherine who makes threats and smirks and controls every room she enters. This Katherine looks like she’s run out of scripts to read from.

“You good?” Elena asks. “You’re kinda... twitchy.”

Katherine’s mouth twitches, but not into a smile. Just a muscle flinch. 

“Guess that makes two of us,” she mutters.

Before Elena can say more, the buzzer sounds.

The door slides open.

“Pierce,” calls Kilton. Another guard stands behind her, more impatient than usual.

Katherine stands like it’s nothing. Smooth and silent. She steps into the open, holds her hands out for the cuffs like it’s routine.

It is. But Elena narrows her eyes.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Katherine says over her shoulder.

Her tone is neutral, but the words are strange. Not condescending. Not even sarcastic. Just... off.

Then she’s gone.

The door closes.

And Elena is alone with the cold hum of the ceiling light and the aftertaste of something she can’t name.

-x-x-x-x-

Cleaning duty is solitary. Purposefully so.

Elena’s on her fourth hallway—one of the dead zones in Block D, where flickering lights buzz over dusty floors, and the air smells faintly of mildew and disinfectant. These corridors weren’t built for people. Just storage. Forgotten corners. Obsolescence.

The mop drags. Her bruised fingers flex around the handle, sore and stubborn.

Katherine’s words loop in her head like a glitch.

“Don’t do anything rash.”

Rash, like... what? Trusting Isobel? Giving Lockwood the map? Trusting her?

She exhales through her teeth. Doesn’t know what she would’ve done anyway. 

Probably nothing.

Probably exactly what Katherine expected.

The mop bucket rattles slightly as she wheels it toward the janitor’s closet. It’s small, colder than the hallway, crammed with bleach, rusted shelving, and an old industrial sink. The kind of place even ghosts would skip.

She dumps the water. Refills. Adds soap. Stirs.

She’s about to leave when the doorknob doesn’t turn.

Frowning , she tried again.

Still nothing.

“Seriously?” she mutters.

She jiggles the lock harder, then pounds on the metal. “Hey! Someone out there? I think I’m stuck!”

Silence.

The signs flash back: Under Maintenance.

Figures.

With a frustrated breath, she slumps to the ground, back against the door, knees pulled up. The air is heavy, thick with detergent and dust. Every inhale sticks.

She doesn’t mean to close her eyes.

But the quiet here is dense. Not restful. Just full.

Thoughts crawl in: Jeremy. The maps. The deal. Katherine. The realization that no one—no one from her life—has come to visit. 

Not once.

Voices. Sharp. Real.

Just outside.

Elena jolts awake, not realizing she’d fallen asleep.

“Stop!!” 

She’s still a little groggy but it’s Caroline. Furious. There’s no mistaking it.

“Wait, Caroline, will you just listen—” Katherine. She sounds breathless.

“What’s there to listen to?” Caroline spits. “We have a plan, right? So why the hell are you meeting with a Mikaelson?”

Elena stills completely.

“They came to me, I didn’t ask—”

“Oh, great. They now? Who is it—Elijah? Finn? You collecting all of them?”

“They were asking questions.”

“About Rebekah?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

There’s a thud, like someone slamming a hand against a wall.

“And you didn’t tell us?” Caroline’s voice breaks, raw and betrayed. “You just let them corner you and thought what, you’d handle it?”

“I didn’t plan it.”

“But you let them get in your head. You didn’t tell me. You didn't tell Rebekah. You didn’t even tell her.”

A longer silence.

“Why haven’t you told her?” Caroline again.

A strained exhale. “I don’t know her.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve known about her since before she got here.”

“I knew of her. That’s not the same.”

“It is,” Caroline snaps. “Or it was. You used to tell me everything. You trusted me. We were in this together. And now it’s secrets and side deals and Mikaelsons—what happened to you?”

“Nothing’s happened,” Katherine says flatly.

“No. Something’s gone. Because the girl I knew wouldn’t leave without us. Wouldn’t risk me. Wouldn’t lie.”

Their voices are closer now. Elena holds her breath.

“Caroline, I'm not—”

“Don’t follow me.”

Footsteps. Retreating.

“Gilbert?” a third voice barks—gruff, impatient.

“I’m not Elena,” Katherine replies sharply.

“Then where the hell is she?”

“How would I know? I’m not her keeper.”

The door slams open.

Harsh fluorescent light cuts through the dimness, and Elena blinks up from the floor, eyes adjusting too slowly. The guard towers over her, jaw tight. Behind him stands Katherine.

For a breath, neither of them moves.

Katherine’s face doesn’t register surprise this time. Just a flicker—tight around the mouth, unreadable behind the eyes. Then nothing.

“Back to work, Gilbert,” the guard barks.

Elena rises slowly, legs stiff from the cold. Her mop handle clatters slightly against the bucket, but she doesn’t flinch. She meets Katherine’s gaze and holds it.

No words.

Katherine breaks it first. She turns, steps into the hall, and vanishes without a sound.

But Elena still feels her there—like a splinter under the skin.

She doesn’t follow. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t breathe until the hallway’s empty again.

Then, she moves.

Mop. Water. Floor. Repeat.

She scrubs harder than necessary, the chemical sting of bleach curling in her nostrils. Her fingers ache. Her shoulder throbs. Her chest does too, but for a different reason.

"We were supposed to do this together."

Caroline’s voice, raw and cracked. A knife in the dark.

But that’s not what lingers.

What lingers is Katherine’s voice. Low. Cold.

"I don’t know her."

It echoes inside Elena like a dropped stone in a well.

Not “She’s not ready.”

Not “She can’t be trusted.”

Just that quiet, gutting disavowal.

I don’t know her.

Like she’s a variable. A liability. Extra baggage.

Her grip tightens until her palm burns. The mop slams against the floor again. And again.

She’s not sure what hurts more—being shut out, or being seen clearly and still left behind.

No room for explanation. No chance to prove anything. Just a dismissal, clean and final.

The ache behind her ribs flares, sharp and useless. She grits her teeth through it.

She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t know what would come out if she did.

Katherine had a plan. Had secrets. Had leverage.

And she still chose to shut her out.

No warning. No reason. Just the truth, slipped like a knife.

And the worst part? It wasn’t said in cruelty.

It was said like fact.

Elena exhales. But it feels like something else leaving her.

Something soft.

She rinses the mop. Starts again. Mechanically.

Because she gets it now.

This place runs on omission. On people keeping just enough close to survive.

And if she keeps waiting to be trusted, she’ll drown in someone else’s silence.

No more blind faith. No more questions.

If Port Hill is a puzzle, she’ll start taking it apart piece by piece.

If Katherine is the mirror, she’ll learn how to crack the glass.

Even if it means cutting deeper.

Even if it means becoming something harder.

Even if it means losing the version of herself she’s still barely holding onto.

Chapter Text

Faultline: a line on a rock surface or the ground that traces a geological fault; a divisive issue or difference of opinion that is likely to have serious consequences.

Elena is scrubbing grime off the railing outside the Block D lounge when she hears a burst of laughter.

She pauses.

Not just any laugh—Katherine’s.

Low. Amused. Practiced.

She glances through the glass.

Katherine sits with Isobel like they’re friends. Not just allies—comfortable. There’s ease in their body language, in the way Katherine leans forward, wrist resting against her jaw. Isobel’s expression is animated. She even smiles.

Elena’s stomach knots.

That’s all it takes.

She turns away before they can see her.

Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t think.

Just walks.

“Gilbert!”

She flinches.

Mervins.

Elena blinks, caught mid-stride. “Yeah?”

“You’ve got a visitor.”

Her mouth opens. “Wait, what?”

Mervins shrugs, almost cheerfully. “Told me to get you. Didn’t say who.”

That lands like a punch.

Her breath hitches as she automatically extends her wrists for cuffs.

A visitor. After all this time. After the silence. After the phone call that never connected.

Hope is a cruel thing to feel.

But it surges anyway.

-x-x-x-x-

The visitation room is cold. Institutional. Her wrists ache against the metal.

She chooses the seat with her back to the door. A stupid, fragile reflex—if it’s someone she loves, she can’t bear to look too fast. If it’s someone she doesn’t, she needs the extra second to armor up.

The door creaks open.

“Elena.”

That voice.

Her entire body freezes.

Logan Fell.

Not Jenna. Not her dad. Not even Matt.

Fell.

He slides into the opposite seat like he owns the room. Slick tie. Greasy smile.

“It’s nice to see you again,” he says, voice syrupy and false.

“I’d rather be waterboarded,” Elena replies flatly.

His smirk only grows. He taps the manila folder on the table.

“The Court of Appeal received a petition,” he says. “They’re reopening your case.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

He meets her gaze, eyes hardening. “They’re petitioning for life. There’s new evide—”

The air leaves her lungs.

“You’re kidding.”

“No,” he says. “It’s already been approved for review. The complaint argues your current sentence is too lenient.”

“Who—who would even—”

But the answer is already there.

Miranda. Grayson.

The ones who called her unstable in court.

Who lied to protect Jeremy’s memory.

Her family did this.

“I didn’t kill him,” she whispers.

Logan’s lips twitch. “That’s not what they believe.”

Her chair screeches as she shoots to her feet. The cuffs rattle violently against the edge of the table.

“This is bullshit.”

“I’m just the messenger.”

“You’re a leech,” she snaps. “You never gave a shit about this case. You tanked my trial.”

He spreads his hands. “You got a conviction. That’s not on me.”

“Get out.”

Two guards enter, hands twitching toward their weapons.

“Elena—” Logan tries.

She cuts him off. “Don’t. I’m done playing nice. I didn’t kill my brother. But maybe I should’ve killed you.”

That earns a flinch.

A rare win.

"You're fired."

Logan blinks a fast, standing, "You can't fire me. I was the only one who took-"

“Take me back,” Elena cuts him off, snarling at the guards.

They escort her out.

No one speaks.

-x-x-x-x-

She ends up in the phone corridor, wrists aching, fury humming in her blood like electricity. She waits in line, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

When it’s her turn, she picks up the receiver with trembling fingers. Dials.

The number she’s dialed a dozen times.

The one she still whispers to herself when the nights get long.

“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is not in service. Please try again.”

It repeats. Then again, in Spanish. Then silence.

She dials again. Slower this time.

Same result.

Her stomach lurches.

She feels like she’s floating outside her own body.

No one is coming.

Not Jenna.

Not her dad.

Not anyone.

-x-x-x-x-

Elena wants to scream, to punch the walls until her knuckles split. Instead, she walks. Because the worst part isn’t the retrial—it’s that, before this, she still hoped they’d change their minds. That her parents might show up and say it was a mistake. That they missed her. She had still been waiting for something that isn’t coming.

She walks like a ghost through the block.

Can’t remember the journey back.

All she knows is when she finds herself in her cell, it’s empty, and the silence is worse than any noise.

She climbs up and sits on the edge of her bunk, legs dangling on the ladder.

She breathes. One. Two.

The hurt doesn’t burn—it hollows. Cold, numbing. Final.

Katherine steps into the cell like she’s weighing the temperature.

Elena doesn’t look up.

There's a beat of silence where Katherine walks in and places something in the desk.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” Katherine says.

“Not right now.”

“That’s new. You usually love the sound of your own outrage.”

Still, Elena doesn’t move.

“Suit yourself,” Katherine mutters, heading toward the bottom bunk.

But Elena’s voice cuts in—low and tight, too sharp to be casual. “So was it fun?”

Katherine stops.

“Chatting with Isobel like you’re old friends?”

Katherine looks up, but there’s no smirk. “You’d fold before she finished smiling.”

That hits harder than it should. Elena blinks. Once. She doesn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But something flares behind her ribs—shame, fury, the echo of being underestimated one time too many.

Her voice is low. Steady.

“I want in.”

Katherine’s brow lifts. “Into what?”

Elena meets her gaze, unwavering. “Don’t insult me.”

A long silence.

Then, a flat: “No.”

Elena jumps off the ladder and steps closer. “I’m not asking.”

“I don’t care.”

“Bullshit. You think I don’t notice how things shift when you’re scared? How you’re pacing at night, snapping at people, dodging the ones you used to control like clockwork?”

“You get pieces,” Katherine’s jaw tightens. “That’s not the same as the whole game.”

“Maybe. But I’ve got time.”

“Is that your pitch?” Katherine’s voice even, low.

“No,” Elena says, steadier now. “This is: I didn’t take Isobel’s deal. I didn’t sell you out to Lockwood. And I haven’t asked you for anything—until now.”

“And you think that earns you something?”

“I think it shows I’m not your liability,” Elena says. “Not anymore.”

Katherine watches her. Her expression doesn’t crack, but something flickers—like she’s working out a new variable.

“What makes you think I need you?”

“I don’t,” Elena says. “I think you will.”

Katherine doesn't flinch, just folds her arms like that'll stop Elena from getting her way. This time she has the upper edge.

“And when you do,” Elena adds, “I won’t be begging. You want loyalty? Earn it.”

The silence between them isn’t quiet—it hums.

Finally, Katherine says, grudging, “Fine. You’re in.”

No warmth. No welcome. Just cold inclusion.

“You’ll follow my orders. No improvising. You screw this up—”

“I know,” Elena says. “You leave me behind.”

Katherine turns away, but not before something flickers in her eyes—maybe irritation, maybe interest.

Elena lays back on her bunk.

She doesn’t feel triumphant. Just focused.

If she’s going to be caged, she’ll learn the map by heart. She’ll memorize the cracks in the wall, the pressure points in Katherine’s voice, the way alliances splinter when no one’s looking.

She’s done waiting.

She’s going to escape.

And this time, she’s not asking for permission.

Chapter Text

Trace (v.): a mark, object, or other indication of the existence or passing of something; a very small quantity, especially one too small to be accurately measured; a surviving mark, sign, or evidence of the former existence, influence, or action of some agent or event; vestige.

Katherine’s had all day, and she’s said nothing.

Elena fiddles with the wrap on her hand, sitting in the cell’s only chair. She tries to sound casual.
"You never told me what Isobel said."

Katherine barely glances up. "Didn’t I?" she murmurs, filing her nails with unnecessary care.

"No," Elena says firmly, arms crossed. "You haven’t."

She waits.

She doesn't expect honesty, not really. But she wants something—scraps, clues, proof that Katherine doesn’t just see her as a temporary burden. She wants to be looked at like she matters—but Katherine just blows on her nails and resumes filing, clearly ignoring her.

"Katherine."

That gets a smirk.

"You know," she says, brushing invisible dust off her pants, "you never told me why you changed your mind. What made you want to come now, as opposed to before?"

It’s a dodge. Obvious. Elena frowns but plays along.

"I needed to weigh out my pros and cons. Give me a break."

Half-true. The retrial’s a whole mountain of cons if she just stays here and does nothing.

"What did she say?" Elena tries again. "What does she want you to do?"

"Mmm, I don’t think so," Katherine says, slipping the file back into a drawer. "You’ll ruin it."

Elena tries not to react, but it worms under her skin. What kind of deal is Katherine making that she doesn’t trust Elena to hear it? What could be so volatile it falls apart just by being spoken aloud?

“Seriously?"

"Did I stutter, Elena?" Her tone stays light, but the dismissal stings. "I don’t need your persistently-annoying self to ruin anything."

"Ruin what?" Elena pushes, jaw tight. She knows Katherine’s stonewalling her—probably payback for worming her way into the plan. Still, she reins it in. Tries again. "How would I ruin something I don’t even know? Look, we can’t keep secrets from each other. I don’t need your life story, but—"

"Don’t threaten me."

"Yesterday was a threat," Elena says coolly. "Right now? Not so much."

Katherine tilts her head, unimpressed.

"The only reason you’re part of anything is because I find you useful.” 

The words aren’t hissed or spat—they’re plain. 

"Don’t mistake my cooperation for loyalty."

Useful.

That hooks something in Elena’s gut. That word again. Like she’s a tool. Like whatever she is to Katherine can be picked up, used, then put down again. She swallows the sting, but it tightens behind her eyes anyway.

"Useful how?" she asks. "You barely know me."

"Everyone plays a part," Katherine says, like it should be obvious. "You don’t think I let you in because of a measly threat, do you?"

Elena’s mouth twitches. That “measly” threat would’ve unraveled everything. "Funny, I thought I was being terrifying."

Katherine smirks. "Terrifying’s a stretch. Irritating with flair, maybe."

"You know, you’re weirdly flattering when you insult me."

"It’s an art," Katherine says, flipping her hair like punctuation. "You should be flattered. You’re not entirely hopeless."

"So what’s my part supposed to be then? Irritant-in-residence?"

"More like the reluctant martyr. Lame hair, bad choices, endless moral dilemmas."

Elena frowns. "So what am I—bait? A distraction? A backup plan?"

Katherine’s lips curve. "Wouldn’t you love to know."

"I would, actually."

"You’ll figure it out," Katherine says, already reaching for a book.

"If you won’t tell me that, then tell me who everyone is."

"Now isn’t exactly the place, is it?"

"Then where is?"

"Later," Katherine says with a sigh, flipping through pages. "I’ll tell you where to meet. Try not to show up mid-spiral. It’s getting predictable."

Conversation over. Katherine’s eyes are on The Count of Monte Cristo now. 

Of course.

Elena turns to climb to her bunk when Katherine calls her name.

She sighs, halfway up the ladder. "What?"

Katherine rests her chin on the book’s spine. Her expression is unreadable.

"Does the address 291 Warrenville Road mean anything to you?"

Elena frowns. "No. Should it?"

"Maybe."

"What is it?"

"I got it from Isobel," Katherine says, eyes dropping back to the page. "Now you know what I do."

-x-x-x-x-

Later, Bonnie gives her a look over their scattered playing cards.

"You okay? You’re worse at this than usual."

"Hm?" Elena glances down and winces. The whole layout’s off.

"Are you cheating or just dissociating?" Bonnie asks dryly.

"Would you believe me if I said both?"

"That’s a bold strategy, Gilbert. Let me know how that works out for you."

Elena tries to laugh, but it sticks in her throat. She’s always been good at deflecting. But lately, it’s starting to feel more like hiding. 

She sighs.

291 Warrenville Road.

She’s never heard of it. But something about the way Katherine said it—the way she waited for a reaction—makes it stick like a splinter in her mind.

"Anything I can help with?" Bonnie asks, gentler now.

Elena hesitates.

"You remember that visitor I had yesterday?"

Bonnie perks up. "Your lawyer?"

Elena nods. "He came to tell me my parents are demanding a retrial."

Bonnie freezes. "That’s… good? Shouldn’t that be good?"

"No, Bonnie. It’s not. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the reason I’m here is because… I—"
She chokes on it.

Bonnie’s eyes widen as she pieces it together. "Oh my god. Elena… I’m so sorry. What do they want?"

"A longer sentence. Maybe the death penalty. I just… I need to do something."

Bonnie grips her hand. "What can I do?"

"I’ll tell you if I figure it out."

Consequently, she already has.

-x-x-x-x-

"Gilbert!"

The guard calls to her from across the room.

Elena looks up at the clock. Crap. Extra duty.

She grabs her supplies and heads to the hall, keeping her head down. The routine helps. Until the soap bottle slips from the shelf and bursts across her arm and side.

"Shit," she mutters.

A guard appears. "You alright? Acidic?"

"Just floor soap. I’ll clean it up."

"Not like that. Go shower. I’ll get someone else to handle this."

Elena nods, relieved. Some guards aren’t complete assholes.

She heads to the showers, trailing slick footprints. Towels and fresh clothes wait in a bin. She takes her time—half because she needs it, half because she doesn’t want to go back.

She’s wrapping the towel around herself when a voice startles her.

"Hey!"

Elena yelps, almost slipping. "Jesus! Don’t do that!"

A girl stands there—short, sharp-eyed, brown hair slicked into a tight braid.

"I got what you wanted," the girl says, thrusting a paper into Elena’s damp hands.

Elena blinks. "What—"

"You said to get it fast. So we’re even now, right? I had to pull strings for this."

The girl’s frowning now. "Come on, Katherine."

Elena’s mouth opens—but then footsteps echo.

Katherine rounds the corner.

Her eyes drift from Elena, to the girl, and then down to the paper between them. 

"Natalie," Katherine says evenly.

Natalie’s face goes pale. 

"Oh, shit. I thought—"

She yanks the paper from Elena’s hand and hands it to Katherine.

"Here. It’s all in there."

Then she bolts.

Katherine levels a glare at Elena.

"I didn’t do anything," Elena says, crossing her arms. "She mistook me for you. I didn’t even smirk.”

But the resemblance is there. She’s known it since the day she saw Katherine’s face. Every now and then, it slips out — in the way her lip curls, or the angle of her glare. It unsettles her more than she’ll ever admit. Because some part of her sees the advantage of who Katherine is. If she's serious about her resolve to be more like her, like the women in Block D, she's already looks the part. 

"Apparently," Katherine mutters, unfolding the paper.

"What is it?"

Katherine reads silently, then looks up. Her eyes are sharp. "291 Warrenville Road."

Elena’s blood chills. "So what about it?"

Katherine’s expression darkens. "You’re telling me this doesn’t ring a bell? Not even with your perfect memory?"

Elena stiffens. That’s not something she told anyone. Not even Bonnie.

"How do you—"

"Tell me then," Katherine says, stepping closer. "Why the hell does that property belong to a Grayson Gilbert?"

The name makes her flinch. Her father. Her dad’s name—on this document.

Elena grabs the paper, and scans it—legal jargon, fine print, records of ownership. The address listed under Gilbert Holdings, a shell company. Grayson Gilbert is the listed trustee.

And suddenly it’s not just a document—it’s a crack in the story she’s built her life around. The man who raised her with cold rules and colder silences had secrets. Real ones.

"Why was this hidden?" Elena breathes. "What is that place?"

Katherine doesn’t answer.

She’s watching Elena’s face too closely.

And now Elena can’t stop thinking.

What was her father doing with a secret property?

And why the hell did Isobel know about it?

Chapter Text

Laundry (n.): the act of cleaning what’s been soiled; (informal) secrets or personal matters, especially those best kept hidden: “to air one's dirty laundry.”; a sorting process — what gets folded, what gets hidden, what gets thrown out.

"Now if I had to guess..."

Katherine trails off, pretending to fiddle with the torn edge of the paper, but she’s watching Elena.

Elena stands stiffly, arms crossed. Her brows are furrowed in dread.

"What? No," she says, already defensive.

"I wouldn't have this if it wasn't accurate."

"Are you sure?"

Katherine frowns at her.

"There’s no way," Elena says, shaking her head. "We don’t have any houses with that address."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I’m sure. My dad has a cabin, and the office, and obviously our house. But this? No. This doesn’t make sense."

Katherine taps her finger against the paper. "Well, it’s your last name on the record. So if it’s not yours, who does it belong to?"

Elena doesn’t have an answer. She rubs at the back of her neck, uncomfortable.

"You said you wanted in on this. That you’d pull your weight. Well, this is your turn."

"To do what?"

"Ask daddy dearest."

The words hit sharp. Elena looks away.

"I can’t."

"Why not?"

"Because I can’t. Okay?"

Katherine tilts her head. "Not an answer."

"I don’t talk to my parents. We’re... not on speaking terms."

Katherine raises an eyebrow.

"And I don’t have a way to contact them, even if I wanted to."

There’s a beat where Katherine says nothing. Then she turns, and tosses a pile of clothes into Elena’s arms.

"Get dressed. We’re going to laundry."

"What?"

"You think I came here just for that tiny revelation? No. But you still stink of bleach, and I need a second pair of hands."

Katherine is already walking away, back to their cell.

Elena sighs and follows.

-x-x-x-x-

The air is stale in the corridors. She’s damp, jumpsuit clinging to skin, arms sore from her earlier shift. Her socks squish in her sneakers. Still, she trails behind, trying not to question why Katherine dragged her along.

The laundry room is already half-full.

Caroline stands at a washer, pretending not to notice them. Rebekah lounges on a folding table. Penny’s leaning against a dryer, her nose still bandaged up. And then there’s Sage—no entourage this time, just her, silent and coiled like a loaded spring.

Elena glances at the door. Mervins is standing guard, per usual.

Katherine doesn’t say a word. She moves straight to a washer and dumps her load in. Elena frowns and follows, tossing in her own clothes.

Elena doesn’t need to ask who Penny means when her voice cuts through the room.

“What the fuck is she doing here?”

Penny’s glare is locked on her, the bruise Elena gave her still blooming beneath her eye.

“This bitch broke my nose!”

Katherine rolls her eyes. “Oh shut up, Penelope. You let a girl half your size wreck you.”

“Excuse me?” Penny pushes off the dryer, fists already tightening.

Katherine shrugs. “Not my fault you can’t fight.”

Penny lunges—but Sage stops her with just a look. It’s not loud. It doesn’t have to be. Everyone in the room feels it.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Sage says, voice flat but pulsing with threat.

“She’s with me,” Katherine snaps, stepping in just enough to signal: back off.

“So? That supposed to mean something?” Sage retorts, not even blinking.

“It means she’s part of this.”

Rebekah, lounging until now, straightens slightly. “Wait. You’re bringing her?”

“You brought Penny,” Katherine counters, tone sharp.

“She’s useful.”

Sage crosses her arms. “And Elena is... what? A liability?”

Elena’s jaw tightens. She wants to speak, but Katherine beats her to it.

“She’s doing exactly what I need her to.”

Penny scoffs. “Oh, so that’s what this is about. Another little spy.”

Sage steps forward. Her boots land with weight. “No. No way. If she’s in, then I’m bringing Olivia.”

“That’s not how this works,” Katherine says, voice dropping cold.

“Oh?” Sage’s mouth curls. “You get to make the rules now? Last I checked, you weren’t the one running D Block.”

Tension tightens like wire. Elena watches Caroline out of the corner of her eye—arms crossed, eyes scanning the room, unreadable. Not siding with Rebekah. Not with Katherine either. Or Sage.  Just... watching. 

She hasn’t looked at Katherine. Not even once. That says more than any outburst would.

“This isn’t about D Block,” Katherine says evenly. “It’s about getting out. That means you follow my lead.”

“Fuck that,” Sage growls. “You don’t get to decide who’s in and who’s out. You think you’re in charge because you have a pretty face and a plan? That doesn’t make you a leader, sweetheart.”

Katherine steps forward. “Last I checked, there would be no escape without a plan.”

“Sure.” Sage doesn't back down. “But there’s no escape when half the block moves on my say-so. You think people are loyal to your face? I’ve had theirs long before you showed up.”

Katherine doesn’t move. “You’re not the only one who can do that.”

Sage’s voice turns low and dangerous. “Isobel would be here—if you could go to her. Don’t make a real enemy of me.”

“You already are. And you’re still here.” Katherine’s reply is quiet, venomous. “If I wanted to burn this alliance, I’d have done it already. You're lucky I’m still playing nice.”

Sage’s eyes narrow, stepping in one last inch. “Keep pushing, Katherine. Watch how fast that changes.”

“Go ahead.” Katherine smirks, measured. “Burn it down. Just remember whose hands are holding the match.”

“Enough.” Rebekah cuts in, standing. “Kat. Sage. This isn’t helping.”

The two don’t move at first. 

Elena feels like she’s trapped between tectonic plates, just waiting for the snap.

Then, like a knife sliding in—

“The maps are gone,” Katherine says.

The air shifts. Heavier. Tighter.

But Katherine doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t brace.

She leans back slightly, the motion deliberate. A breath slips past her lips—not quite a sigh, but close.

Her expression doesn’t change. Still cool. Still challenging

Like she just set fire to the room and doesn’t need to watch it burn.

Elena stares.

What the hell.

She’d barely gotten half an explanation out of Katherine before being dragged into this meeting like a warning label. Now she’s dropping this? Now?

The word detonates like Katherine wanted it to. And maybe she did.

Because somehow—even now, even outnumbered—she looks like she’s already won.

“You lost them?!” Penny screeches.

Katherine’s voice slices through the air. “They were taken. Which means someone in this room is either sloppy—or stupid enough to let it happen.”

Elena stiffens. Her mind flashes to the hidden spot. No way anyone else could’ve seen—Unless... unless someone had been watching her, too.

“You were the one who had them,” Penny snaps. 

“And you all knew where it was.” 

Katherine’s expression doesn’t falter. If anything, she looks more dangerous now. She doesn’t scan the room—she owns it. 

She lets silence do its work.

Sage tilts her chin. “And you just now figured they were gone?”

“I didn’t call this meeting to confess,” Katherine says. “I called it to warn you.”

She steps closer to Sage. Voice low. Deadly.

“Someone’s moving against us. That makes Elena the least of your concerns.”

Penny laughs bitterly. “So what, she’s your backup plan?”

Katherine doesn’t blink. “She’s leverage. And she’s mine. That’s all you need to know.”

Elena flinches. Not at the words, exactly—but at how easily they land. 

No apology. No explanation. Just fact.

She scans the others—Sage’s steady burn, Penny’s disbelief, Rebekah’s narrowed eyes. Even Caroline’s expression, sharp and still. But it’s Katherine that Elena can’t stop watching.

Because whatever game she’s playing—Elena’s already in it.

“I already lost something that shouldn’t be possible to take,” Katherine says. “The next person who questions my judgment better bring more than a bruised ego.”

Penny glares. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?”

A beat of silence.

“Whoever took them knew exactly where to look,” Katherine says, and lets that hang. “That narrows it down.”

Now the eyes shift. Tension ripples through the room.

Sage’s mouth curls. “If this is a loyalty test, you’re playing with fire.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Rebekah steps in again, voice firmer. “If the maps are compromised, we need to act—not posture.”

Katherine turns. “Agreed. Which is why things change now. No more add-ons. No new names. The list is closed.”

She looks directly at Sage. “Unless you want to take your people and try without me.”

Sage’s jaw clenches. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t leave either.

Elena lets out a quiet breath. And that’s when the door creaks open.

Bonnie walks in, basket on her hip, eyes unreadable. “Someone’s coming.”

Like a switch, the tension evaporates. Penny flirts with the next guard that comes in. Rebekah hums. Caroline bends over a cycle. Sage leans on the dryer like nothing happened.

Elena follows Bonnie to a machine, playing along.

But the weight of everything said doesn’t lift.

Not even close.

The guard lingers. Checks machines. Chats briefly with another guard who joins him by the door.

Time slows.

Eventually, the load finishes. The others leave in pairs, slowly, naturally. Elena and Katherine remain.

The laundry room is quiet now. Too quiet.

Elena stands there, the hum of the dryers barely registering. Her heart’s still ticking fast from the scene that just unfolded—Sage’s threats, Penny’s whining, Rebekah trying to hold the line. All of it orbiting one person.

Katherine.

Katherine, somehow, pulling it all back from the edge without even raising her voice.

Who now leans against the counter, folding the last of her prison jumpsuits, perfectly calm, like she didn’t just step into the centre of a firestorm and come out unscathed. 

Elena finds her voice. “What the hell was that?”

Katherine doesn’t look at her. Just pulls her ponytail tighter and says, “You know about the plan. Now you know who’s involved.”

“That wasn’t a meeting,” Elena says. “That was a full-on standoff.”

“That was a warning,” Katherine corrects. “To all of them.”

Elena hesitates. “They hate me.”

“They hate each other more. That’s the only reason this works.”

She turns, finally looking at Elena. “This place breaks people, Elena. Makes them small. Makes them mean. But the ones you should worry about? They're the ones who’ve already been broken. That's not them.”

Elena watches her, unsure what she’s supposed to feel. Gratitude? Suspicion? Fear?

“You really think you can pull this off?” Elena calls after her.

Katherine glances over her shoulder, half-smirking. “I don’t think. I know. Try to keep up.”

And then she’s gone.

Elena doesn’t move. Not yet. Her chest rises and falls in steady, quiet disbelief.

She doesn’t trust Katherine. Of course she doesn’t.

But Elena just watched her stare Sage down without blinking—watched her hold the room, twist suspicion like a blade, without drawing a drop of blood.

Elena had hoped Katherine could hold her own.

She hadn’t expected to fear her more for it—or feel safer because of it.

And for the first time, Elena doesn’t know if she should be wary of the fire… or glad to be standing beside it.

Maybe both.

Chapter Text

Purpose (n.): the reason something exists or is done, made, or used; an intended or desired result; a goal or function.

Elena stares at Bonnie from across the cafeteria table as she eats. It isn’t as creepy as it sounds—her mind is too preoccupied to register that she’s even staring.

“What?” Bonnie asks, pausing mid-spoonful.

“Huh?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She wipes the corners of her lips. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No.” Elena shakes her head vigorously, trying to snap out of it. “I mean... well, no. You don’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“I, um…” She shakes her head again. “I just can’t believe you’re part of it.”

Bonnie looks so normal here—jeans, tray, sleepy sarcasm—that it’s hard to reconcile her with the girl who didn’t flinch in a room full of knives and a few ticking time bombs.  

That perfect performance—walking in and blending like everyone else—shocks her more than she expected. Bonnie had played her part effortlessly. Meanwhile, Elena had stood there, gaping. She’s never been good at lying. Not exactly.

Bonnie smiles. “I’m going to assume that’s a compliment.”

“Yeah. Of course. Just this morning you were asking me about the retrial. I didn’t have an answer. Mostly because I couldn’t tell you I already figured it out… sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I actually have no idea what I’ll do after. You know?”

Bonnie nods, and Elena leans in.

“So why are you part of it?”

“Other than the freedom?” Bonnie whispers, scanning the cafeteria before continuing. “I didn’t tell you everything about how I got here. I mean, if it was just cyberterrorism, I doubt I’d be facing a life sentence.”

Elena raises an eyebrow. She’s never asked how long Bonnie’s sentence is. Bonnie never asked hers either. It was an odd sort of courtesy—an unspoken rule.

A shout from the hall interrupts them. Heads turn toward the cafeteria doors. The voice comes again, louder but still unclear, and several women stand up to investigate. Elena would normally ignore a ruckus, but then three guards sprint past the hall.

She and Bonnie share a look.

“A fight?” Elena guesses.

Bonnie shrugs as more women abandon their meals. Curiosity wins. They follow the crowd to the main hall.

Elena pushes forward through the sea of bodies until she finds herself at the edge of a semi-circle gathered around one of the cells.

“Stop! You can’t do this!”

Several guards are inside cell D176, turning it upside down.

“If you don’t back up, you’re going to be restrained,” one of the guards warns. Her gaze sweeps the crowd. “That applies to all of you.”

“What are you even looking for?” demands a redhead—Olivia, Elena realizes. They’d only spoken once, unpleasantly. No love lost there.

“I’m not hiding anything in there!”

“Olivia doesn’t have anything to hide! This is a violation of our privacy!” someone else shouts.

“If she’s not hiding anything, there’s nothing to worry about, is there?” the lead guard responds, arms crossed, blocking the view.

Bonnie leans toward a nearby woman. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. They just stormed in and started tearing the place apart.”

“What are they looking for?” Elena asks.

“Some smuggled goods,” the woman says, straining to see.

Helpful.

“I heard something about a cellphone,” someone else offers.

“Now, look what we have here,” a male voice announces from inside the cell.

A guard steps out, holding a bundle of papers. “O’Riley, care to explain what this is?”

Elena’s eyes narrow. The papers dangle from his hand, lined with precise marks. She recognizes them instantly.

“Why, Norman,” another guard says with mock surprise. “Looks like a map.”

“I’ve never seen that before!” Olivia protests, voice rising.

Norman—according to his name tag—tilts his head. “Sure you haven’t.”

“What? No! That’s not mine!”

“Cuff her.”

“No! Stop!” Olivia shouts, struggling as guards pin her to the wall.

A new voice cuts through the noise.

“Stop! What are you doing?!”

Sage.

She pushes forward, furious. “Get your hands off my cousin! Olivia hasn’t done anything!”

“Callaghan,” Norman warns, “I suggest you don’t get involved.”

Sage doesn’t listen. She lunges—and lands a punch.

A second later, she’s on the ground, struck hard with a baton. That’s all it takes. The women from Sage’s side of Block D erupt, charging into the guards.

The hall explodes into chaos.

Elena steps back, keeping out of it. She’s not on anyone’s side right now—not Isobel’s, not Sage’s. But then she sees her.

Across the crowd, Katherine stands watching the scene. She turns just as the guards begin to regain control.

And for the briefest moment, Katherine smiles.

Not warm. Not shocked.

Satisfied.

Elena’s chest tightens. That smile feels colder than the floor under her feet.  

If she's right, that smile says more than words ever could. If she's right, it says Katherine planned for Olivia to be taken out of the equation. That she already knew Sage would bend, that everyone else would cave. It says Elena was right last night—Katherine isn’t just a player in the game.

She’s winning.

Elena watches Katherine walk away, then glances back to the now-trashed cell.

The map. It’s the precise grid-work. The same kind of ink. She only saw them once—but it’s burned into her memory. The same hand. The same fold lines.  

And now they’ve reappeared.

Almost like they were meant to.

Without thinking, she follows Katherine.

Elena finds her seated in their cell, flipping open a book like she didn’t just spark a riot. The contrast from the chaos to the calm she steps into is unsettling.

“What the hell, Katherine?” Her voice comes out cold.

Katherine looks up. “I’ve been getting a lot of that lately. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You did that. You planted those maps in Olivia’s cell so she wouldn’t come with us.”

“Interesting theory. But I had nothing to do with that.”

“Bullshit. You said everyone knew but only you could’ve taken them out of here without either of us noticing.”

“Well then,” Katherine says, coolly, “for all I know, it could’ve been you. Is this a confession?”

Elena laughs, incredulous. “Me? I have no reason to sabotage Olivia. Or Sage.”

Katherine shrugs. “You say you didn’t. I know I didn’t. Between the two of us, I trust myself.”

Elena narrows her eyes. “You call that a denial?”  

“Maybe. But think about it—those cells on the ground floor are full of Sage’s people. Someone would’ve seen me. I didn’t put those damn maps there.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know. And frankly? I don’t care.”

Elena stares at her. She doesn't care because she's careless or because she has something Elena can't possibly see? That’s the part she can’t understand.

How does Katherine always stay a step ahead? She made it look easy last night—maneuvering everyone into place, brushing off Olivia’s name like Sage wasn’t demanding, and still walking away with Elena accepted, Sage quiet, and the maps conveniently missing.

Katherine hadn’t just won. She’d rewritten the game.

And now she won’t even pretend to lie about it.

“You’re not scared at all, are you?”

“Of what?”

“Sage. What if she finds out you’re the one who framed her cousin?”

"She can't find out anything, because I didn't. do. it."

Elena rolls her eyes, disbelieving but amending, "What if she thinks you’re the one who framed her cousin?”

Katherine lifts her eyes. “Then she’s as predictable as I thought.”

Before Elena can respond, someone barges in.

“What the fuck did you just do?”

Isobel.

She storms in, shoving Elena aside without a glance. One slow, deliberate step, and she closes the space around Katherine—still seated, pressed back until her shoulders meet the cold wall. Katherine’s head tilts with the impact, a faint wince almost hidden beneath her mask of calm. Her eyes lock on Isobel’s, sharp and unyielding, but she doesn’t move. Not yet.

Elena sees it for the first time—Katherine, cornered. Just for a moment.

Control radiates from Isobel’s stance, a silent claim. Katherine’s fingers twitch at the chair’s edge, calculating, steadying herself. Behind the facade, Elena senses the storm brewing—quiet, dangerous, waiting to strike back.

“You told me—”

“Don’t.” Isobel’s voice is low, dangerous. It slices through Katherine’s words like a wire. “You know exactly what I meant when I told you to get rid of her.”

“I did,” Katherine grits out, jaw tense.

Isobel’s eyes narrow, slow and merciless.

“I did,” Katherine repeats, louder this time. “You wanted her gone. She’s gone—from Block D, maybe from Port Hill altogether.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t kill people—”

“You remember what I said last time you disobeyed?” Isobel murmurs, almost calm now—but her voice is poison.

Her hands curl around the chair’s armrests—white-knuckled, not shaking, just seething.

“Disobeyed?” Katherine’s voice is flat. “I’m not your child. And I’ve done everything you asked.”

“You’re supposed to do everything my way,” Isobel snaps.

She yanks Katherine up by the collar so hard the chair scrapes against the floor. The fury finally shows in her face—flushed, uncontrolled.

“I warned you,” she hisses. “One more mistake, and the deal’s off.”

“Hey!” Elena grabs her arm, hard.

Isobel doesn’t even look at her. Doesn’t break eye contact with Katherine.

Katherine’s voice is razor-edged now. “You’re supposed to help me find them.”

Isobel’s eyes flash—too bright, too hollow.

“From now on,” she breathes, “you’re on your own.”

Then she shoves her. Hard.

Katherine hits the floor with a dull thud, crashing partially into the chair. 

Isobel storms out.

For a second, Elena can’t move. 

Can’t think.

She’s said it so many times it’s starting to lose meaning. But still—“What the hell was that?”

Katherine doesn’t move right away. Just breathes, shallow—but controlled. Calculated.

“Nothing I can’t live without,” she answers.

“You said you had nothing to do with those maps.”

“I don’t.”

Elena can almost believe her but the chill in Katherine's voice fuels her doubt.

As if reading her mind, Katherine refuses her hand and gets up by herself, explaining, more irritated than anything.  "Olivia is a pawn. The only reason why she would be a target is because of Sage." 

“She wanted you to punish Sage?”

“And I wouldn’t. I need Sage—at least, for now.”

“You could’ve told me that.”

Katherine brushes herself off like none of it mattered.

“I didn’t need to.”

And maybe she didn’t.

Elena stands there, pulse still rattling from everything—Olivia, the riot in the hall, Isobel, that flicker of a grin. She can’t entirely believe Katherine. But now she can’t help believing that she didn’t do it. Not really. Sabotaging Sage’s cousin would’ve been a reckless move, and Katherine doesn’t make those. Not without a net.

If Elena had just stopped to think—really think—she might’ve seen it earlier.

That’s the worst part. She should’ve known.

Try to keep up.

Katherine had just told her the day before and she's already steps behind.

Katherine turns toward the sink, pours herself a plastic cup of water—elbows stiff, one hand barely trembling before she stills it.

“And if I have to waste time explaining myself to someone who still doesn’t know how to read the board, we’re both screwed.”

She downs the water in one go, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then sets the cup down. 

One hand lingers at her side. The other rises to rub at her collar, where Isobel grabbed her. She doesn’t flinch. But the motion betrays how deep it went.

The silence stretches.

“So what am I for, then?” Elena asks, quieter now.

Katherine doesn’t look at her at first. Just studies the faucet like she’s waiting to see what Elena really wants to ask.

“How am I useful?”

The last piece of the puzzle.

“Your memory.”

Elena frowns.

“Your photographic memory.” Katherine taps her own temple.

Elena blinks. Katherine had mentioned that before—but how she knew, she still can’t figure out. 

“You checked up on me?” she concludes.

“I went looking. I had to know what made you useful. Turns out, you’re a walking map.”

“So I’m a tool.”

“Exactly.”

Of course. That’s why she was invited in. Not because she proved herself—but because she was useful from the start. Just one more gear in whatever machine Katherine’s been building.

For a second, Elena doesn’t speak.

But one thing is clear now.

She’s not out of her depth anymore.

She’s underwater.

And Katherine? She’s still the one holding the air.

Chapter Text

Lockdown (n.): a state or period in which movement within or access to an area is restricted in the interests of public safety or health; restriction of access to data or systems.

“What’s going on with you and Caroline?”

Rebekah’s voice cuts through the silence of the cell—low, sharp, already halfway to pissed. She steps inside, arms crossed, not even glancing Elena’s way.

Elena doesn’t look up from the book she’s pretending to read on the top bunk. She doesn’t need to. Every word lands like it’s aimed straight at Katherine’s throat.

Katherine doesn’t flinch. “We had a fight.”

Elena flips a page. Not reading. Not leaving, either.

Rebekah doesn’t soften. “About what? Caroline hasn’t looked at you since Tuesday. Hasn’t looked at me either. That doesn’t happen unless something’s seriously wrong.”

Katherine looks up at the blonde.

“She hasn’t been this upset since you started cozying up to Isobel.”

“Well,” Katherine says, dry, “Care doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“You said Isobel’s out of the picture.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because you’re dodging.” Rebekah’s voice tightens. “Something’s going on. I want to know what it is.”

Katherine exhales, pressing a hand to her forehead. 

“She walked by after I had… a visit.”

“That’s it?”

“She saw who it was.”

A pause. Sharp. Loaded. 

“Who?”

Katherine hesitates. Just a breath—but Elena sees it. A flicker of something too human before it locks down again.

“Your brother.”

Rebekah blinks. Once. “What?”

“First Finn, then—”

“First?” Rebekah’s voice sharpens. “They came separately?”

Katherine nods, but it’s hesitant.

“They came more than once—and you didn’t tell me?”

Katherine rises, slow. Careful. “I didn’t call them here—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then how could you not tell me?”

Katherine falters for a second, but her voice is quiet, “I didn’t think I needed to.”

Even Elena blinks. That’s not a lie. That’s worse. That’s a miscalculation.

Rebekah exhales. Calm—somehow colder than yelling.

“You didn’t think I needed to know.”

Katherine’s lips press together. Her eyes close for a moment—like she’s wincing. Like she knows she misspoke. Like she’s bracing for the impact that’s already landed.

“What did they want?” Rebekah presses.

“You already know.”

“I’ve been avoiding them for months. And you just, what? Rolled out the welcome mat?”

“It wasn’t all about you,” Katherine says, sharper now.

Rebekah stares. “Everything’s about me when it’s my family. You forget that?”

“I didn’t say anything—”

“You didn’t have to.”

Katherine’s voice lowers. “Bex, I didn’t tell you because I knew what it would mean. But it wasn’t betrayal. It was—”

She cuts herself off.

Rebekah doesn’t blink.

“Don’t you dare call it strategy,” her fury turns quiet. “Because it sure as hell feels like betrayal.”

“I had to hear what they wanted.”

“No,” Rebekah says. “You wanted to hear it. And that’s worse.”

Katherine softens. “I didn’t plan this to hurt you.”

“You didn’t plan not to.”

Silence drops like a curtain.

“Bex—”

But Rebekah is already walking. Out the door without another word.

Katherine follows, guilt chasing anger like it might catch up.

When she returns a few minutes later, Elena finally looks up.

Katherine’s jaw is locked. Shoulders squared.

This is the quietest she’s ever seen Katherine. Not the kind that calms. The kind that cracks.

-x-x-x-x-

Elena wakes up wrong.

The air feels off—too still. No distant hum of the overhead lights. No clatter of shoes against concrete, no routine morning curses from the other cells. Just silence, thick as fog.

She blinks up at the ceiling of her bunk.

Then at the door.

Still shut.

Her stomach sinks.

The wall clock reads past their usual unlock time. Way past.

Across the corridor, every cell is still barred. One guard paces at the far end, deliberately slow, deliberately silent.

Something’s wrong.

She slips down from the bunk, bare feet cold on the floor. “Hey!” she calls out. “What’s going on?”

No answer. The guard doesn’t even glance her way.

From the next cell over comes a short, biting laugh.

“Don’t tell me you actually expected her to answer.”

The accent is unmistakable.

“Rebekah?”

Even knowing it’s her, Elena says the name like a question. 

“Mm.” A beat. “Good morning, sunshine.”

Elena steps closer to the bars. “Why aren’t we being let out?”

“Lockwood declared a lockdown this morning.” 

Elena blinks. She has a feeling she doesn’t want to know the answer but she asks.

“Why?”

“She’s on a warpath about those maps. What else?”

Elena presses her forehead lightly to the bars. Of course.

She almost asks about Olivia—but she stops herself. She doesn’t need Rebekah’s wrath added to everything else. And she definitely doesn’t ask where Katherine is. That absence is louder than the locked doors.

If Lockwood is on a hunt, Olivia’s probably already been moved—or worse.

Elena’s stomach churns.

If Katherine didn’t plant the maps, then who the hell did? Could Olivia have done it herself? It doesn’t fit. Nothing fits. Every thread she pulls just tightens the knot.

Her gaze drops to the floor. Her pulse drums slow and heavy. What bothers her most isn’t the who or the why. It’s Katherine.

How calm she was after the maps vanished. How little she seemed to care.

Those maps were hers. The plan was hers. Shouldn’t she be rattled?

Or maybe that’s the real answer. Maybe she’s not shaken because she already knew.

The voice cracks through the corridor—“276. Step back.”

Elena jolts, the silence shattering around her.The guard’s voice cuts from down the corridor, sharp and commanding. She takes a quick step back—and just in time.

Katherine rounds the corner, flanked by two guards.

Uncuffed already. One hand rubs absently at her wrist, like the shackles were just a formality.

She looks exactly the same. Too much the same.

Her stride is smooth, casual—shoulders loose, head high. No blood, no limp, no signs of the argument Elena watched unfold yesterday.

Not even a crack in her tone when she says, “You’re finally awake.”

Like nothing happened at all.

Elena blinks, slow.

Of course she looks fine. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Whatever storm she walked through, Katherine wouldn’t bring the rain back with her.

Not where anyone can see.

The cell door clanks close.

Katherine moves toward the sink, voice breezy, “Did you sleep well, princess?”

Elena glares. “Did you get breakfast?”

“We’re on lockdown,” Katherine says, drying her hands like she’s been back for hours. “No one leaves without permission.”

“They can’t not feed us.”

“They did.” Katherine nods at a metal tray on the shelf. “Bread and cheese. I ate yours.”

“You what?”

“It’s almost noon.” Katherine shrugs. “Relax. Lunch will be here eventually.”

Elena’s stomach growls, traitorous.

Katherine smirks. “Here.” She tosses her a bottle of orange juice. “Figured you’d want that at least.”

Elena catches it. Speechless.

She stole her food. Who does that?

Elena shakes her head to herself. 

'No, of course she did.'

“If you’re done sulking,” Katherine says, settling on the floor, “we should actually do something productive.”

“You ate my food,” she mutters, cracking the seal on the bottle.

“You slept through the morning. Someone had to make the sacrifice.”

Katherine is already shuffling a deck of cards with practiced ease. Elena watches her warily. Like nothing is wrong. Like no one framed Sage’s cousin with maps that were in this very cell just before.

Elena doesn’t move, still mildly offended. “I’m not sulking.”

“Great. Now come here. Pick a card,” Katherine says, easy and unreadable. “We’ve got time to kill—and you’ve got catching up to do.”

-x-x-x-x-

Elena picks a card without thinking. A seven of diamonds. She stares at it like it’s going to reveal something important.

It doesn’t.

Across from her, Katherine shuffles the deck with swift, fluid precision, the cards snapping like teeth. Everything about her is calm, measured, even her posture. She’s not fidgeting. She’s not rattled. Not even with the maps gone, the lockdown in effect, or Isobel’s threat still fresh in the air.

And that’s what makes Elena nervous.

"What are we doing?" she asks, sipping the juice Katherine gave her, trying not to sound too irritated.

"Playing cards."

"You still owe me food."

Katherine snorts. "Pick a card."

She fans the deck out and gestures.

Elena sits cross-legged. "Whatever it is, I already know how to play."

"I’m sure you do. You and Bonnie had that Rummy streak going, right?" Katherine smirks. "But this isn’t about matching sets. This is about reading me."

Elena narrows her eyes. "Poker?"

"More or less. We’ll keep it simple. High card wins, but you can fold, bluff, or bait. Winner takes the pile. Real stakes."

Elena sips her juice and sets it down. "Fine."

They deal. The silence stretches as they glance at their cards. Elena watches Katherine’s face—stone calm, unreadable. She lays down a queen.

Katherine raises an eyebrow, then tosses a two. "Confident."

"I remembered how many face cards were still in the deck," Elena says, tone clipped. "It wasn’t a guess."

"Cute." Katherine deals again. "But you hesitated. I could’ve called your bluff."

"That wasn’t a bluff."

"You don’t get it." Katherine leans in, voice low. "Poker’s not about cards. It’s about people."

She taps the side of her temple. "What they want. What they hide. What they’ll bet when they’re desperate."

Then she tosses her next card. "You want to win? Learn to read that."

Elena frowns. "You’re saying I can’t win unless I’m like you."

"I’m saying you won’t win unless you stop thinking like a girl who plays fair with Bonnie."

They deal again. Elena watches the shuffle, counts the flicks, tracks suits. Her memory ticks—faces, positions, order. She plays a jack.

Katherine throws down a king.

"You remember every card I’ve played," Katherine says. "And that’s useful. You’ll need it when we move. But it won’t save you when someone’s lying to your face."

"I’m not stupid."

"Didn’t say you were." Katherine gathers the pile. "I’m saying the guards won’t care how smart you are when they stop you. And Sage? Penny? They’ll rip you up if you can’t read a move before it’s made."

Elena stares at her. "So this is a lesson."

Katherine smiles. "Every moment is a lesson. I’m just the only one kind enough to grade you."

They deal one more time. Elena keeps her face still.

She doesn’t win that round either.

But she doesn’t flinch when she loses.

Elena doesn't reach for her cards right away.

Katherine’s words echo louder now that the room is quiet again.

She watches the woman across from her, calm as ever, stacking the deck like it’s nothing, like the world doesn’t spin faster when she talks. Elena knows she’s not wrong—not about Sage, or the guards, or the stakes. But it still sits heavy in her chest.

She hates losing. Not the hand, but the ground beneath her. She thought she was catching up.

But Katherine’s not just playing games. She’s testing pressure points. Reading tells. Calling moves before they’re made.

And Elena’s photographic memory?

It’s useful.

But it’s not enough.

She can memorize maps. Remember guard shifts, door codes, names, and orders. But Katherine? Katherine memorizes people—the way they flinch before they lie, the breath they hold before a fight, the look they give away just before they turn on you.

It’s not just memory. It’s survival.

And Katherine’s had more practice.

Elena draws in a breath, exhales slow. Then reaches for the next card.

She’s not going to win today.

But she’s learning how.

-x-x-x-x-

"So the plan."

"This is practice," Katherine says simply. "Mental drills. This plan only works if you have the route locked in and I have the timing exact."

"I do have it locked in."

Katherine raises a brow. "Oh? How do you know the route?"

Elena opens her mouth—stops—then shrugs. "I’ve been… watching. Listening. Bonnie talks. Penny moves in patterns. Sage can only access certain wings. I just started fitting the pieces together."

Katherine studies her for a beat. "You pieced it together."

Elena nods once. “Best I could.”

“All right, then. Let’s hear it.”

Elena exhales. "Left corridor. Down two flights. Service door in the laundry hall connects to the admin wing. Then through the staff offices—north side—and out past the perimeter wall."

"And the watchtower?"

"East corner. High visibility...." Elena rolls her eye, thinking, "I don't know how you plan on getting past that." 

Katherine frowns a little, both brows raising, "Not bad."

"Did I get right?" Elena asks, watching her.

"Close enough. You’ve been paying more attention than I thought." Katherine smiles. Not wide, but enough. "You’re not useless."

"High praise," Elena mutters.

They play. Cards pass back and forth. Katherine wins most of the hands without even trying. Elena’s starting to realize she doesn’t just play to win—she plays to watch how others play. She reads body language like subtitles.

"Why the cards?" Elena asks finally.

Katherine glances up. "It’s subtle. And it gives us a script. If anyone walks in, we’re just killing time."

"Right," Elena says. "Because this looks so innocent."

"You’d be amazed what guards overlook."

Elena lets that hang in the air. And then she says it:

"The notes on the maps."

Katherine doesn’t blink. "What about them?"

"You didn’t write them."

"No."

"But you knew about them."

Katherine’s face doesn’t change, but her next movement is a beat too deliberate—setting a queen on top of the pile.

"If someone reads them, they won't give anything away?"

"You have a better memory than me." 

"I..." Elena narrows her eyes, picturing it. "I couldn't really read it." 

"Me neither." 

"That really doesn't concern you?"

Katherine shrugs, dealing another hand.

Elena pushes. "Did you know they’d show up in Olivia’s cell?"

"No." The answer is instant.

"But you weren’t surprised."

"That’s different."

It’s Elena’s turn to hesitate. "So you're saying someone took them—on purpose. Someone who knew they’d matter."

Katherine taps her cards together. "I think someone wanted to escalate things. And they knew exactly how."

She doesn’t say the name, but Elena can see it anyway—clear in the way Katherine’s eyes darken. Elena’s gaze flicks to the fresh bruise forming on Katherine’s collarbone, a raw reminder of Isobel’s rage.

But that doesn’t add up. If Isobel wanted Olivia gone to get to Sage, why settle for a transfer? Planting those maps only got Olivia moved, not dead.

Elena’s chest tightens. The pieces don’t fit. And Katherine won’t say the name aloud. That silence speaks volumes—and maybe danger.

Katherine’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I have suspicions. But I’m not saying them out loud.”

"Why not?"

"Because whoever it was… they got what they wanted. And if I call it out now, I give them more power."

Elena lifts an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you were the superstitious type.”

"It's not superstition, Elena."

Elena swallows. "So what? You just wait?"

"No," Katherine says. "I adapt."

A beat passes.

Elena stares down at her cards—an ace and a two again.

"Since you’re the one with the map memorized," Katherine says, "you guide us. I handle the timing. But we need to be precise."

Elena hesitates, then nods. "So I lead the route?"

"More or less."

"What’s stopping me from leaving without you?"

"Instinctual fear," Katherine smirks. "And the fact that you don’t know the schedule. Guard rotations aren’t exactly public."

"Fair."

"First—"

"Wait," Elena cuts in. "The notes on the map—"

"Again?"

"I just can't get it out of my head." Elena shifts. “If you didn’t write them, and neither of us can read them, then who were they meant for?”

Katherine doesn’t answer right away.

Which might be an answer in itself.

"Does it matter?"

Elena frowns. The handwriting was barely legible—maybe on purpose. Were they meant to mislead? To frame someone? Or worse—meant for someone else entirely?

"What?" Katherine presses.

"Nothing."

"Then shut up and listen."

She nods. "Right." 

"The route, with the basement and the admin wing?" Katherine doesn't wait for Elena to confirm. "You asked how we would get past the watch tower. There's an eighteen second blind spot when they switch shifts."

"And you know when."

A nod.

"And what about the offices—"

"Not the problem. The wall is."

"With the tower. Eighteen seconds won't be enough."

"The timing’s manageable."

"You sure?"

"I’ve studied it. If not, we take the tunnels."

Elena grimaces. "Seriously? That's plan B?"

"If you find another route, let me know."

"So our options are sewage or sniper fire?"

Katherine watches her, amused. "There’s a third option. Depends on the day."

"What’s the third?" Elena asks.

"A truck."

Katherine plays a pair of kings.

"Red Cross rolls through every couple months. Doesn’t stay long. We slip out with them."

"And no one notices?"

"Minimal detection. We assume volunteer IDs. Get on. Get out."

Elena nods, committing it to memory.

Even if she wanted to escape without Katherine, she wouldn’t make it past the third corridor.

Not yet.

"No big deal," she mumbles.

"No big deal," Katherine echoes, dealing the next hand.

They both glance at their cards.

Elena’s pulse flutters, unsure.

She lays one down—an eight. It feels safe. Maybe too safe.

Katherine lays her card without looking. Ten of hearts.

"You hesitated," Katherine says. "Again."

Elena tries to brush it off. "I didn’t—"

"You did."

She collects the cards slowly, her voice gentler now, but no less firm.

"You want a tip?"

Elena looks up.

Katherine gives a half-smile, more shadow than warmth.

"If you don’t know what they want—watch what they’re willing to lose."

Elena mutters under her breath. “Great. Something to aspire to.”

Katherine hears it. She grins — quick, sharp, almost involuntary.

“There you go,” she says. “I was starting to worry you didn’t have teeth.”

That look again.

Not quite smug. Not cruel either.

Something closer to amused. Maybe even impressed.

Wry — like Elena surprised her, and she doesn’t hate it.

Elena doesn’t respond. Not aloud.

But she clocks the shift. Doesn’t trust it, not entirely.

Still, she registers it. Tucks it away.

Not trust. Not yet.

But something’s shifting.

And Elena feels it — whether she wants to or not.

Chapter Text

Five of Hearts (cartomancy): love, conflict, uncertainty — often interpreted as emotional confusion or change; signifies a time of change and a desire for new experiences.

Five of Hearts.

Elena stares at it like it holds answers. Her head rests on her arm atop the desk, posture loose, limbs heavy. Under the fluorescent’s sick buzz, the red pips glint—five neat hearts, cheerful in a place that eats cheer for breakfast.

Katherine lies on the bunk behind her, a book spread face-down on her stomach. Eyes closed—but Elena knows better. Katherine doesn’t sleep so much as wait. Not around others. Not even around her.

"You said your family was in a bad place," Katherine says suddenly. Her voice is quiet but not soft. "What do you plan on doing when you get out?"

Elena lifts her head just enough to glance back. “I don’t know.”

“You do,” Katherine says, opening her eyes. “You just don’t want to say it out loud.”

“What, and ruin the mystery?”

Katherine hums, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “You’re not that mysterious. You talk in your sleep.”

She sits up, “I do not.”

“You do. You said ‘where are the cupcakes’ at least three times last week.”

Elena snorts. “Well. That’s mortifying.”

“Don’t worry. I assumed you were being metaphorical.”

That pulls a quiet laugh out of Elena—low, surprised, true. For a breath, the room tilts toward almost-normal.

Katherine doesn’t poke it. Just smirks to herself as her gaze drifts back to the ceiling.

For a beat, the world goes still.

The Five of Hearts sits between them like a joke the universe forgot to explain.
Sweet. Ridiculous. And for a second—it fits.

A flicker of normalcy, gone as fast as it arrived.

“Would you go back?” Elena asks a moment later, “If you could.”

Katherine raises an eyebrow. “To where?”

“Home.”

Katherine lets the question hang for a moment.“It’s only been two days. Is this the part where we hold hands and talk about our feelings?”

“You’re dodging.”

“So are you.”

Katherine shifts her head on her pillow. The corner of her mouth lifts, but her eyes stay closed.

Elena rolls her eyes, but there’s no venom behind it. She lets herself lean back in the chair, letting the wood creak beneath her weight.

“You’re here,” Katherine speaks again, softer now, “and you still act like you have something to lose.”

"Speak for yourself," Elena says, not looking at her.

But Katherine meets her gaze anyway. Something unreadable passes across her face—almost recognition. Almost.

Elena swallows. The air between them isn’t warm, but it isn’t cold either. It’s… suspended. Like maybe, if they just keep talking, the walls won’t close in again.

The buzzer rips that thought in half.

It shrieks through the cell, sharp and sudden, as the mechanical clank slices through the quiet.

The cell door unlocks and slides open.

Elena looks up, half expecting the usual food tray but what steps inside isn’t that.

Three guards. Mervins. Kilton. Lee.

“Pierce. Gilbert,” Lee calls. “Step out.”

Elena freezes, glancing down at the card still between her fingers. Five of Hearts. Suddenly it feels like a warning.

“For what?” Katherine asks, light on the surface, jaw already set.

“Step. Out.” No room in Lee’s voice for anything else.

Katherine doesn’t argue. Just stands and rolls her neck once, patience flexing. Elena follows. The cuffs bite before they’re fully through the door—front-cuffed, useless bracelets that bruise.

Inside, chaos begins.

Elena flinches as the first drawer hits the floor.

Mervins flips the mattress. Kilton yanks items off of shelves. Books hit the ground with flat, final thuds. The deck of cards scatters like shrapnel.

The sounds are almost theatrical—too loud for such a small space. Every crash feels like a verdict.

They’re not just searching. They’re destroying.

“Easy,” Katherine says dryly, “unless you’re planning to alphabetize everything afterwards.”

Lee doesn’t dignify her with a reply.

“Got something,” Mervins calls from under the sink.

Elena’s heart kicks. She doesn’t know what she expects—but her body knows it’s bad before her brain does.

Mervins straightens. Plastic bag in hand.

The plastic rustle is too loud. Kilton joins, delicate like she’s handling a toxin. “Christmas came early.”

Pills.

White, round, unmistakable. Elena’s stomach turns.

‘No.’

They were not there. Not this morning. Not ever.

She looks to Katherine for anything—shock, anger, denial.

Katherine just blinks, lashes slow.

“Wow,” she murmurs. “What are the odds? The one time you manage to find something, and it’s a gift-wrapped felony.”

“Funny how the mouth always runs when the evidence turns up,” Lee says.

“Someone has to narrate,” Katherine leans casually toward the door, gaze slicing through the bars. “How else would you keep up?” 

Elena doesn’t speak. Doesn’t laugh. Her gut twists. Cold clicks into place: somebody put those there. This isn’t random.

“You nervous, Pierce?” Kilton shakes the bag. “Afraid we’ll find your escape route in the toilet?”

“Disappointed,” Katherine says. “I expected creativity.”

Lee turns to Elena. “What about you? You want to explain how contraband ends up under your sink?”

Elena opens her mouth—then stops.

Her hands twitch in their cuffs.

“Someone put it there,” she says, sharper than she means to.

“Anyone in mind?”

She hesitates. Fighting the urge to glance back at Katherine who isn’t even looking in her direction.

Not here. Not now. Too many eyes. Too many loaded motives.

Kilton shrugs. “Not how it looks.”

“Of course not,” Katherine snaps. “Because if it looked like what it actually is, you’d have to admit someone’s playing you.”

“Maybe it’s connected to the maps,” Mervins offers. “Could be a trade, or incentive.”

Katherine scoffs. “Pills aren’t going to decode a floor plan. Unless you think the walls talk.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lee ends it. “Violation’s a violation. You’re both coming with us.”

The cuffs feel hotter, smaller. Elena doesn’t resist, but everything in her coils. Not out of guilt. The opposite.

As they’re dragged out, she looks back into the cell—the mess, the ruined order, the wreckage of something small and brief that had almost felt… normal.

The door slams on it.

-x-x-x-x-

Two corridors. One checkpoint. They get shoved into a small, windowless room. Plastic chairs. Fluorescent lighting. The kind of place where nothing good ever happens.

A few women are already inside—some slouched in their chairs, others restless. None make eye contact.

“Move it,” Kilton mutters, nudging Elena forward.

Bonnie’s the first thing she sees. 

Bonnie is seated along the far wall, and for a second,  the sight of her steadies Elena. Then she clocks the rumpled jumpsuit, the cuffs tight at Bonnie’s wrists, the drawn line of her mouth.

The younger girl’s expression sours the moment she sees the guards.

Something about this feels off. Not just wrong—engineered. Even the hallway outside lacks the usual radio hiss. Quiet, like someone turned down the world.

“Hey!” she whispers urgently as Elena’s pushed forward. “What happened?”

“Planted pills,” Elena mutters. 

Bonnie’s lips part slightly, but she doesn’t speak. Whatever she was going to say, she swallows it.

“You?”

Bonnie glances toward the nearest guard and lowers her voice. “Cellphone died. aundry alarm didn’t go off. Missed the window.”

Katherine raises an eyebrow. Barely. Elena notices. Bonnie notices that she noticed. A tiny shake of Bonnie’s head—not for Katherine, not really—but something about the motion feels like a closed loop. A signal passed between them. No words needed.

Elena sees it. Doesn’t understand it. Not the content—just the code. That unspoken current between them. That quiet shorthand.

She sits. Cuffs heavy in her lap. The room is stale. Ribs still throb from being jostled. Across from her and Bonnie, Katherine lowers herself into a chair with practiced indifference—shoulders loose, hands still shackled in front of her like jewelry.

Elena also sees the tension. The coil under the ease. Not fear. Readiness. Katherine isn’t waiting for an explanation. She’s waiting for a trigger.

“They’re trying to separate us,” Elena says, mostly to herself, but Katherine hears her.

“If they wanted to separate us,” she corrects, “we wouldn’t be in the same room.”

Elena turns, speaking quiet enough that no one hears them above the vent noise, “So what is this?”

“A test,” Katherine says with a shrug, flicking her gaze to the guard in the corner. “Or a prelude to something messier.”

“Messier than this?” Elena asks.

“A confession. A warning shot. A spectacle. Whichever comes first.”

Elena blinks. “That’s a little paranoid, don’t you think?”

Katherine looks at her. Elena frowns.

“You’ve been here a while, Elena. Do you really think I’m being paranoid?” Katherine supplies, “Whatever is coming next, they don’t need the truth. They just need enough people to believe a version of it.”

Elena exhales slowly.

She hadn’t thought of it like that. But now that Katherine says it, it clicks.

The pills. The timing. The silence.

It’s not justice.

It’s a show.

Bonnie’s eyes travel the room. “We’re not the only ones being held. That means this is bigger than you.”

“Or it’s exactly about her,” Elena says.

Katherine doesn’t rise to the bait. She folds her legs calmly, gaze unfazed.

Elena stands anyway. Walks the few steps to Katherine’s side, slow, deliberate. The guards at the door glance but don’t stop her.

She sits close and pitches her voice to a narrow slice. “Sage planted the pills,” Elena says. “She thinks you put the maps in Olivia’s cell.”

Katherine doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t even turn. Just that same, eerie stillness. Thumb skimming the back of her other hand, a habit polishing itself.

“Well,” Katherine says, “she wouldn’t be the first person to blame me for someone else’s screw-up.”

“She wants you out of the way.”

“I figured.”

“Then why are you so calm?”

“I’m not calm.” Katherine tilts her head slightly. “I’m quiet.”

Not lake-quiet. Fuse-quiet. The way Elena’s pulse responds makes that clear.

“She’s not just mad, though,” Elena says, more sure now. “This isn’t punishment. It’s escalation.”

Katherine finally turns her head to her, eyes still scanning the room. “You think she’s coming for me.”

“I think she already did,” Elena says. “The pills were just the warmup. She’s trying to finish the job before the lockdown lifts. No back up. No big riots.”

Katherine’s eyes meet hers, quick study. Elena blinks at her gaze, finishing her thought with a lean, “But this? She wants an audience.”

Katherine’s jaw flexes. Not surprise—just confirmation.

Silence gathers. 

The guards aren’t watching. Bonnie’s gone still. The other women shift and mutter, but they’re scenery.

Elena stares ahead. Breath held. Almost surprised by her own certainty.

“Good.”

Elena blinks. “Good?”

“If she’s done playing nice,” Katherine says, leaning back, “maybe we can finally stop wasting time.”

There’s no bravado in her tone. Just inevitability. And something else Elena can’t name.

She doesn’t know what she expected—for Katherine to lash out, maybe. Deny it. Laugh. Dismiss it.

But Katherine does none of that.

She just lets the silence sit.

The weight of their words curl around them like smoke.

When Elena sits back, trying to decipher what was already set in motion, Katherine speaks again—quieter this time, almost to herself:

“She’s not going to make it easy.”

‘Neither do you,’ Elena thinks, but she doesn’t say it. Because for the first time, they’re truly sitting on the same side of something.

Not allies. Not friends.

She thought the line was already drawn.

But this feels different.

Like someone just turned the board.

-x-x-x-x-

Half an hour into their wait, the room stills.

A figure appears at the door.

Blue jumpsuit. Red hair. Steel eyes.

Tears streak her cheeks, already drying in the heat of her fury. Her fists are clenched. Her jumpsuit rides high on her shoulders, but her face isn’t twisted in grief—it’s rage. Raw and splintered.

Katherine sees it too.

Everyone turns. Conversations die.

Sage doesn’t look at anyone except Katherine.

"You psychotic little bitch," she spits, already crossing the room.

Elena’s heart kicks. 

Katherine doesn’t rise. Not yet. Her head tilts a degree, as if watching a clock only she can see. Shoulders shift. Weight coils. Eyes locked on Sage like they’re stepping into an old war.

"You want to talk, let’s talk," Katherine says, even.

Sage doesn’t wait. She lunges, bunches a fist of Katherine’s shirt, and hauls her upright in one ragged motion. 

Elena’s body jerks to stand—but the cuffs bite her wrists, catching on her seat, and she’s yanked up short.

Katherine’s caught—just for a second. Off balance. Elena feels her own heartbeat stumble as Sage drags Katherine close, fury coming off her like heat. Katherine’s fingers come up fast, clamp Sage’s wrists, twisting.

“I know it was you,” Sage snarls.

Katherine pulls, trying to break free, but Sage’s grip tightens like a noose. “Let. Go.”

Again Katherine wrenches; but Sage is iron. Her voice is splintering now.

“You killed her.”

The words don’t land right.

Not on Elena.

Not on Katherine either.

But the conviction in Sage’s voice makes the truth irrelevant.

Katherine’s expression doesn’t change.

Elena steps forward. Bonnie’s hand closes on her wrist—not a pull, a check.

“You sent Olivia to die,” Sage says, voice shaking. “You framed her. You knew what would happen.”

Katherine’s mouth opens—but not for a denial. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Sage seethes.

Katherine’s eyes narrow. “I don’t even know—”

“Transferred,” Sage spits, like the word has teeth.

Her voice catches, once—then hardens.

“Beaten to death this morning.”

Everything stops. Breath, motion, sound.

“She’s dead.” 

The words slap the air like thunder.

Gasps ripple. Bonnie goes rigid. Someone swears.

Elena’s chest clamps. 

Katherine falters so slightly Elena’s not sure anyone else sees it. Confusion—real—flicks and is gone.

“What?”

“I’m not going to let you get away with it” Sage hisses, tightening.

Katherine twists hard, rips free, cuffs biting skin. She plants a foot in Sage’s thigh and shoves, staggering her back to buy space.

Sage recovers, glare ice cold. 

“You sent her away,” she declares. “You gave her the map. You made her a target. You always knew she wouldn’t survive.”

Katherine doesn’t respond.

Because this isn’t an accusation anymore—it’s a verdict.

“You wanted her out of the way, and now she is. Congratulations.” Her hand slips into her pocket. "Now I'm going to return the favor."

She draws a blade like it’s a performance—swift, smooth, like she’s done it a hundred times before. A real knife. Steel. Not a shiv. Not a toothbrush with a sharpened edge.

Elena freezes.

"The best part?" Sage grips the knife, knuckles white.

“Guards!” someone cries.

No answer.

The doors are wide open, but the hallway is empty. The officers who were supposed to be standing post are gone.

No witnesses.

"You no longer have a shield."

There's a beat. 

And then the others in the room start moving. Not to help—no. They move toward the hallway, quietly, steadily fleeing. As if moving too fast would incur Sage's attention.

They’re leaving. One by one, slipping past the chaos like it’s not theirs. Like it never was. These are the same inmates who screamed for Katherine at her last fight. The same women who started a full-blown riot on Elena’s first day here—for Katherine. But now?

Now they scatter.

Because Isobel isn't standing beside her anymore.

It knots Elena’s stomach.

Five stay. Hearts hard, faces set. Passing a key among them with terrifying ease as they strip their chains and fan behind Sage like cards laid from a hand.

Elena sees Bonnie hesitate. Just for a second.

Her eyes go to Elena. Elena’s go to Katherine. Katherine doesn’t flinch.

But she's unusually silent.

“Stop—Sage, she didn’t do it,” Elena blurts, without thinking. She moves forward, trying not to look at the five now loose behind Sage. “Whatever you think happened, Katherine wasn’t behind it.”

The knife doesn’t waver.

Elena takes another step—

Chains clatter as Katherine’s hand hooks her elbow. Elena stumbles as she’s yanked back. Hard. Unrelenting. 

Her arm throbs, but Katherine doesn’t let go.

“Don’t be stupid,” Katherine mutters—low, clipped, automatic. Her eyes never leave Sage.

The words aren’t cruel. Not even angry. Just a warning. And somehow, that makes it worse.

Elena freezes.

She hadn’t even realized what she was doing. She hadn’t been thinking. 

She just moved—toward the knife, toward Katherine, like instinct overrode reason. Like she could shield her. Like that would mean something.

Katherine straightens, gaze razor-sharp. “Return the favor?” Her eyes glint. “You’ll find I’m not so easy to kill.”

The air shifts. Tightening more and more. 

Sage and her group advance, the knife glinting in her hand. 

Someone breathes too loud. 

Someone else steps sideways.

The moment before impact is surreal—like time skips a beat.

There’s no trigger. No bell.

Just motion.

Like a dam gives out.

Then the room explodes into violence.

-x-x-x-x-

Sage swings the blade and Elena ducks, grabbing the wrist of a woman lunging for her. They collide against a chair. Bonnie pulls one of the others down by the hair, slamming her into a bench.

Katherine and Sage clash like it’s rehearsed. 

Like this was inevitable.

Katherine twists Sage’s wrist back and the knife flies loose, skittering across the floor.

Someone dives for it.

Elena turns just in time to catch a fist flying toward her. Someone grabs her from behind, yanking her backwards into a metal chair. She stumbles and nearly goes down, cuffs rattling. Another woman lunges, grabbing her collar and jerking her sideways.

Elena throws a wild elbow that connects, but her arms are still restricted, and she can't do much more.

She looks—just for a second.

And that’s all it takes to realize: Katherine is holding her own.

Even with her hands tied, she moves like she was built for this—lean, fast, brutal. Sage is broader, stronger, fuelled by something vicious and personal.

Sage lunges again, slashing wide.

Katherine pivots—twisting, ducking—and drives a brutal side kick straight into Sage’s midsection. The impact knocks the redhead back a few steps, enough to make her snarl in fury.

But she doesn’t go down.

A second woman moves in.

The one who hadn’t gone after Elena or Bonnie.

She comes at Katherine from behind.

Elena’s heart leaps as she ducks away from a hit. “Katherine—!”

Too late.

The woman grabs Katherine by the hair and yanks her backward—but Katherine doesn’t hesitate. She drives her heel into the attacker’s shin, whips around, and manages to throw her shoulder into the woman’s throat, staggering her.

A boot slams into Elena's side and she drops to the floor hard, gasping. Pain explodes through her ribs. The sound leaves her in a wheeze—no breath left.

She curls, coughs, tries to focus. Can’t.

Someone tries to drag her up again—Bonnie. Bonnie’s fighting too, eyes wild, hair flying. One of Sage’s people lunges, but Bonnie throws up a chair and knocks her sideways.

Elena looks. 

Sage rushes in while Katherine’s off balance. Together they crash into her—two against one.

Katherine rolls to one knee under the weight, grits her teeth, and then she’s moving again.

A spinning kick catches the second woman under the jaw. The cuffs clank violently as her wrists snap against the motion, but she doesn’t falter. She uses her legs like blades—another sharp kick, this time low, sweeping Sage off her feet.

But Sage rolls with it, popping back up.

Elena tackles one of the women recovering from Bonnie's swing, elbowing the girl in the ribs.

One of the others kicks her hard in the side. Pain flares as she falls. 

On the floor she doesn't need to look up, Elena has direct view of Katherine. 

Katherine and Sage are still fighting. Still locked in that violent ballet.

Katherine’s quick but Sage is relentless. The knife slashes across Katherine’s shoulder and blood blossoms through the fabric of her collar. She doesn’t stop. They slam into the wall, then the table, rolling, kicking, clawing.

Bonnie shouts something. Elena loses sight of Katherine in the blur of movement and bodies.

Elena blinks sweat from her eyes, scrambles upright—and then another blow lands, this time from a booted heel right into her already-bruised side. She curls in with a choked sob, everything inside her ringing.

Across the room, Sage and the other woman circle Katherine now. Coordinated. Angry.

Katherine’s chest is heaving, sweat lining her brow, blood already seeping from a gash near her collarbone.

The second woman feints left—Katherine turns toward her—but it’s a trick.

Sage barrels in from behind, and this time, she doesn’t miss.

She slams Katherine back into the wall. Katherine jerks forward, coughing hard, but before she can recover, Sage wraps an arm around her throat from behind.

The second woman moves in.

Katherine’s trapped.

Pinned.

Elena shuts her eyes against the kicks, curling up further to protect her torso and her head. 

Through blurry legs, Elena sees Katherine slam the back of her head into Sage’s nose—there’s a sick crack—but Sage doesn’t let go.

Katherine kicks—twice—managing to strike the second woman’s ribs. But her strength is ebbing now. Her body’s slowing.

The two drag her back into the middle of the room.

Still no guards.

Still no help.

Elena sees the blood. She wants to scream. Wants to run to her.

Bonnie appears, knocking away her assailants before succumbing to the ones she's turned away from. Elena's vision is blurry, but she's able to kick at someone standing, returning Bonnie's favour. 

She blinks, standing up, hand on her side and regaining her composure. 

On the other side of the room, Sage hauls Katherine forward again, arm locked across her throat, the other woman circling like a shark. Katherine’s breathing is ragged, mouth bloodied, but her eyes are steady. Defiant.

Even with the disadvantage, she won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her scared.

The other woman dives in again—swinging.

Katherine blocks it with her forearm and retaliates with a knee straight to her chest. But she’s too slow to recover—Sage pulls her back and drives a fist into her side.

Elena flinches from across the room. She tries to shove the last woman off of Bonnie, makes a wild grab for the back of her collar, but another fist slams into her own side. Her vision spins again. She stumbles and falls hard, catching herself on her hands.

Everything’s chaos.

Blood spatters the white floor. Cuffs clang like bells on every desperate movement. Breathless, choked grunts. Screams. A body thuds beside her—Bonnie’s attacker, dazed but still crawling.

Elena turns her head—and sees it happen.

Sage digs in.

She shoves Katherine against the far wall, so hard her skull knocks against concrete.

The knife comes back into view. Silver—almost shimmering, glinting in the light.

Katherine sees it too.

And she moves.

Not fast enough to stop it. Just fast enough to take it.

The knife sinks in.

Elena sees it like a stutter in time — the way Katherine's body jerks, the way her breath punches out of her, the way she grips Sage harder, steady.

Elena’s breath leaves her lungs like a punch. And something in her just… splinters.

“No!”

She doesn’t know why that word pulses in her skull like a bruise. But it does.

Katherine’s eyes go wide—but she doesn’t scream. Her jaw tightens. 

She looks up, but the woman pulls her close, Katherine's chin resting on her shoulder like she's consoling her. Katherine’s lips part, shallow measured gasps before identical features twist when Sage turns the blade slow, precise. Deliberate. 

Katherine grits her teeth. Her hands, still bound, tighten around Sage’s wrist like she can hold the pain in if they don’t move—but the damage is done.

With a slick pull, Sage yanks the blade free. Smooth, like she's throwing paint.

Blood blooms fast—too fast—through the front of Katherine’s jumpsuit.

But she doesn’t fall.

Not yet.

She pushes—lunging forward, elbow cracking into Sage’s collarbone. The knife swings again. This time, it misses, slicing through air as Katherine shoves her back with a grunt, staggering.

They circle. Katherine is breathing raggedly now, a hand clutched to her side where red leaks in pulsing bursts. Her face is pale, jaw tight, and for the first time since the attack began, she falters.

Not from fear.

From blood loss.

“Elena!” Bonnie calls but she doesn’t hear her now. 

Sage advances again, her blade angled low. Katherine drops her stance—but the second woman’s already on her. Katherine tries to twist away—too slow. The attacker rams her shoulder into Katherine’s back, driving her toward the floor.

Elena watches, frozen.

Her chest seizes.

The image is too close. Too familiar. Her brain fractures.

Not again.

Not again.

Not again.

She doesn’t remember pushing off the floor. Just movement. Shouting. A scream she thinks might be hers.

But Katherine’s already falling.

She drops to one knee, legs buckling, blood soaking the waistband of her jumpsuit now. Her cuffs drag uselessly at her wrists as she tries to brace against a row of chairs—and fails.

Sage lunges for the finishing blow.

Katherine barely lifts her arms—deflecting it. The blade slices across her forearm.

She slams forward with her remaining strength, driving her shoulder into Sage’s sternum. It knocks the knife from Sage’s hand.

The blade skitters across the floor. Out of reach.

Sage stumbles, winded, on her back

Katherine doesn’t follow.

She’s still standing—but barely. Shoulders heaving. Blood everywhere.

Then her body makes a choice her mind won’t.

She folds.

Her knees hit the floor first. Then her hands. Down on her side, breath small and quick.

It’s not stillness—it’s collapse.

It’s not death.

But it looks like it.

Elena’s lungs seize. Bonnie grabs her arm, pulls her back. Stops her in her tracks. 

“Elena—don’t—”

“I have to—!”

Her voice is breaking. She doesn’t know why she says it like that. Like “have to” means “save her.” Like it’ll change anything.

Red spreads on the floor. Thick. Vivid. Alive.

Like before.

Too much like before.

Jeremy.

Her body remembers the dirt shape soaked in his blood. The silence after. The sound of the world narrowing.

And now Katherine’s on the ground.

All she sees is red.

The guards rush in—finally. Screaming orders. Weapons raised. One yells for everyone to get down, another demands someone restrain Sage.

But the room doesn’t freeze. 

Red on her hands. Her own. Jeremy’s. Katherine’s.

Her body remembers before her brain does. The sound of it. The weight of it. The moment when she turned and saw—

She shakes. Trembles.

Can’t breathe.

She doesn’t even register that she’s pulled from Bonnie. Doesn’t feel her legs carrying her forward. She hears shouting. Someone shouting her name.

Bonnie?

Guards?

It’s all noise.

Her focus is the red.

The figure on the floor.

Katherine isn’t moving.

Katherine isn’t—

“Breathe,” someone says beside her. "Gilbert—hey—breathe!"

She tries.

Tries again.

But it’s too much.

The floor lurches sideways.

The lights blur. The red pools. 

The hearts flip face-down. 

Then the black.

She disappears into it.