Capítulo 13: No Allies in a Cage

The poison tasted like almonds and regret. Scarlett had been in Metropolitan Correctional for four days when the guard with the tattoo brought her lunch.

The tattoo itself—a small knight chess piece inked under the jawline—was the first warning. The second was the smell: cyanide had a distinct bitterness, and Scarlett's father had once taught her to recognize it in the steam rising from a cup of tea.

She lifted the plastic spoon, and the fumes made her nostrils flare. She turned and threw the tray against the bars.

The guard recoiled, hand going to her baton. Scarlett was already on her knees at the toilet, forcing her fingers down her throat.

The stew came up in a hot, sour flood, followed by water and bile. She retched until there was nothing left but acid, and then she kept retching as the guard shouted for backup.

When the convulsions started, her vision splintered into black spots. She bit down on her tongue and tasted copper.

The last thing she saw before passing out was the guard's smile—thin and satisfied. She woke in the infirmary with restraints on her wrists and a saline drip in her arm.

The doctor said she was lucky; the dose had been weak. Scarlett didn't believe in luck.

She believed in the fact that the guard had wanted her to suffer first. Two days later, her court-appointed lawyer, a man named Driscoll who sweated through his cheap suits, met her in a windowless room.

"Mr. Vance passed away this morning," he said, not meeting her eyes.

"Infection from the gunshot wounds. I'm sorry." Scarlett's face didn't move.

The words landed like stones in still water. Marcus, the one person who knew her before she became this, gone.

She forced her hands to remain still in her lap. "When's the trial?" Driscoll shuffled papers.

"The prosecution is moving fast. They have Victoria's video, your past...

Miss Reed, we need to consider a plea—" "No." "Miss Reed—" "Get me the discovery. All of it.

Now." She said it without heat, but Driscoll flinched. He left promising nothing.

Back in her cell, the guard with the knight tattoo was waiting. She leaned against the bars as Scarlett was shoved inside.

"Tough day?" Her voice was a rasp. "Heard your boyfriend died.

Shame." She tapped her own chest, where a badge read OFFICER CROSS. Scarlett catalogued the name, the face, the faint coffee stain on the uniform collar—detail, always detail.

"He wasn't my boyfriend," she said. "He was my brother." Cross's smile faltered, just for a moment.

Then she laughed. "Whatever helps you sleep." That night, a trusty slid a rolled newspaper under the door.

Inside, a single sheet of onionskin paper was folded, covered in a script so small it hurt to read. The message was from Wren, a data broker who owed Scarlett a life debt from years ago.

The information was sparse but devastating: the chief prosecutor in her case had been threatened. Anonymous messages, surveillance photos of his daughter.

The demand was simple: ensure a conviction, and add multiple life sentences. The sender was untraceable, but Wren's analysis pointed to a Knight associate—someone still active inside the corporation, with deep resources.

Scarlett sat on the thin mattress, her back against cold cinderblock. So Victoria hadn't been the end.

A hidden partner had crawled from the wreckage, and now they were tightening the noose. The trial wasn't about justice; it was a hit job, wrapped in legal robes.

She thought of Marcus, of the blood on his lips when he'd whispered her name. She thought of Ethan, whose face had faded with the gunshot.

Everyone she'd ever trusted was dead or corrupted. She was alone in a cage, waiting for a trial that was already rigged.

But Scarlett Reed had been born into a trap. Her whole life had been a series of locked rooms.

She inhaled slowly, and the old, cold focus settled into her bones. The guard named Cross had a nervous habit of twisting her ring when she lied.

The trusty's newspaper meant someone could still reach her. The infirmary had exposed plumbing she could memorize.

Her fingers moved on the concrete, tracing lines. Escape wasn't a fantasy; it was math.

The game had entered a new phase, and she was already calculating the board. Outside the bars, the prison hummed with muffled voices and electronic locks.

Scarlett closed her eyes and saw the city skyline she would reclaim. The hidden Knight thought she was buried.

They were about to learn: you don't bury a woman who can dig.