With Karla in solitary confinement, I know it will be a while before I get to see her again. Although it may create a bias, I decide to spend the time looking over the Cabello family's history in crime, ensuring that I gather my information from various sources, ruling out anything that conflicts with any other source.

This proves to be difficult at first as my sources largely consist of national news coverage which can often exaggerate with their carefully selected words; it's no secret that most media outlets seem to thrive on mongered fear. Eventually, though, I find a—somewhat dubious for the fact that they seem to praise the Cabellos—site that offers real footage, captured by CCTV or police body cameras, of each time she and her parents had escaped the clutches of justice. I must say, despite having heard all of the stories before of just how cruel and, frankly, intelligent the Cabellos were when it came to crime, seeing it unfold on camera seems to make it all the more real. All I felt in my heart was pity for the two Cabello daughters that were raised in this life, my patient included.

One video, in particular, has captured my attention this evening. It shows Alejandro, I presume, along with seven-or-so accomplices. All of them are wearing animal masks to host a high-end bank heist here in Miami. Despite the fact that the crime is rather below his level judging from the other videos ranging from arson that destroyed his supposed rival's restaurant front to clips that come together to show that he runs an illegal drug cartel larger than any I've ever heard of, everything seems normal at first glance. It's your average movie stickup, with hostages gathered in small groups, each one with at least one guard to prevent their escape or retaliation. There's no audio on the tape, or at least not on the version uploaded to LFBlood.com, but the body language of the team of thieves clearly shows that they're barking orders to one another and the hostages.

My gut, however, tells me that normality is not the case. I watch the video three, four, maybe five times, paying attention to another criminal each time, before I notice it. While four of the accomplices are working on bagging up as much cash as they can, Alejandro (identified by his leader-like behaviour, the slight limp he always seems to sport, and the snarling wolf mask on his head which reminds me of Karla's previous statement about alphas biting) and another, smaller figure are standing in the back near the largest group of hostages. The smaller of the two, wearing a white rabbit mask that covers their whole head, holds a gun out to one of the hostage's heads. I can see how their hand is trembling despite how they grip their wrist in an attempt to keep it still as Alejandro and the hostage speak to them, both growing more passionate with time. The hostage barely moves his right hand from the back of his head and the rabbit pulls the trigger, thrusting a bullet into his skull. Immediately, the gun falls to the ground as they look down to their hands as if in shock of what they'd done, falling back a step. At the gunshot, the team of criminals begin to flee. Alejandro backhands the back of the rabbit's head, snapping them out of their daze. They make it out of the back entrance of the bank before the police come rushing in through the front.

It isn't difficult to identify the rabbit as Karla—or whatever she wishes to be called. Her frame is about right and as they rushed through the exit, a long dark braid fell from within the mask, and it doesn't quite make sense for anyone else to be in her position. This is evidently a training mission of sorts. That, or a test; the only question is whether she passed or failed.

The video replays in my mind over and over until I return to the prison a week later, when I'm informed that my patient has been released from solitary. I'm thinking over it still when I reach the interrogation room, surprised to find an officer waiting outside of it. She smiles when she spots me, hurrying forth to meet me a few steps before the door.

"Can I help you?" I ask, frowning slightly at her chipper demeanour.

She clears her throat and nods, her smile fading until there's no hint that it was ever there at all. "You're Karla's therapist, right?"

I nod slowly, glancing at the door behind her.

"I just wanted to let you know that if you need help with anything for her treatment, like, an officer's help, I'm here."

I grin slightly, thanking her.

"You're welcome. I'm just glad she has someone to talk to now, y'know? I tried to help her out but she just doesn't say shit to me or any of the officers, but I can't say I blame her with the way they treat her."

I knit my brows once more. "What do you mean by that?"

She shrugs. "I'm just saying, like... Hartley's the worst, but she's not the only one who treats her like shit just 'cause of her name. So yeah, just let me know if there's anything I can do." She smiles again, rubbing her hands together.

"Actually..." I drawl, going over my plan for the day in my mind, "There might be something."

...

When I enter the room, my patient is already waiting inside. She glowers at the table until I take my seat when she flicks her scowl up to me. There's something lesser about this one, though, than the others she's sent my way. Something seems to be dulling her anger. She almost seems like she's simply pouting, but there's still a darkness that makes her dangerous.

Before I begin with this session, there's one thing I have to clear up.

"Last time we spoke, you told me not to call you Karla." I begin, watching as she once again clenches her fists before stretching her hands out until they must surely be in pain. They shake for just a second before she relaxes them. "What would you like me to call you?"

Her voice is rough when she speaks, as if it has gone unused, or perhaps been entirely overused over the course of the week. With her, I have a feeling it could be either. "Camila."

"Okay, Camila." I notice how every muscle in her body seems to soften and make a note in her file so as not to forget. "I'd like to try something with you today that you might not have done before. Is that okay?"

She shrugs, looking down to her hands as her nose twitches. "It won't work."

Ignoring her comment, I instruct, "Close your eyes."

She does as I say with a small sigh, which I take as a victory.

"I want you to revisit a memory for me. It can be any memory you want. Can you do that?"

She doesn't respond, but I nod to the officer who sneaks into the room, taking care not to make too much noise in an almost comical fashion.

"Think about what you could touch... what you could see..." I pause, watching attentively as her face screws up. The officer draws closer, and I speak while she does as asked. "Immerse yourself in the memory. Make it as vivid as you can. Imagine you're right back there..." I'm rather surprised when she doesn't seem to feel the officer's presence so near to her or, if she does, she doesn't lash out. The officer successfully removes one of the handcuffs and moves onto the second. "Think about what you could hear..." her head twitches the side and the officer flinches and steps back. Her unsure eyes meet mine, but I nod in reassurance. Slowly, she steps closer, managing to unlock the second handcuff and lay them on the table before leaving the room once more. "What you could smell..."

Camila begins to tremble. Her chest heaves as she pants, and I debate whether or not to touch her in order to comfort her and root her back in the present. I decide to lay my hand on the table so that it is within her reach, but don't force myself upon her.

"It's alright—"

"I can't, I can't," she stammers, groaning as if in pain. My eyes widen when she begins to wheeze, hands flying up to fist her hair tightly.

"Camila? Camila, it's okay. You're here. You're not there. It's in the past. Deep breaths."

With each word I say, she only seems to fall further into the state of panic.

"Fuck," I whisper, standing from my seat and moving to squat beside her, resting my hands on her leg. She yelps and tries to pull away, but while her hands are free, her ankles are still restrained. I lift my hands, letting them hover inches above her thigh. "Open your eyes, Camila."

Slowly, she peels her teary eyes open, looks down into mine, and releases her grip on her hair. Still, her breathing is hazardously erratic. She looks like an entirely different person to the one who entered the room, desperately afraid.

Now that she knows who I am, I slowly lower one hand back to her leg while using the other to gesticulate. "Deep breaths, okay? In..." I Inhale slowly, hoping she'll follow. She does, so I wait until she reaches her capacity, hold for a few seconds, and finally exhale, "and out. In... and out."

After a short while, her breathing returns to normal, despite the occasional hiccup. Eventually, she lowers her hands, looking over her wrists in shock before back at me. I only watch as she lifts the cuffs still hooked to the table, holding them gently between one hand's fingertips, as if they might burn if she held them too tightly, as the other scratches at her neck.

"Our relationship as psychologist and patient is going to be based entirely on trust," I explain, keeping my voice soft. I hadn't expected her to fall so easily into this state, especially after the last time I saw her when she'd seemed so far gone in the opposite direction.

"Put them back on." Her voice is cold as her face drains of any emotion.

Still, I press on. "I trust you, Camila. I trust that you won't hurt me. I need you to trust me, too."

"You don't know me. Put them back on." She lays her wrists in the cuffs so that all that must be done is to click the open segments into place.

"Can you tell me about the memory?"

I fall back when she yells, "Fuck— please!" Frantically, she secures one around her wrist, setting it just a tad too tight before moving to the other.

Yet again, a group of officers rush into the room to 'detain the unruly inmate'. I try to argue but have no choice but to sit back in my seat as she's forced from the room prematurely once more.

The officer from before returns to the room after the others have left, sitting in the seat Camila had occupied. She lets a moment pass before asking, "What happened?"

"Anxiety attack, I believe." I sigh, burying my face in my hands. "She completely freaked at the whole 'trust' thing. It's like she has no faith in herself." Which doesn't make sense, I think to myself, as someone who seemed so sure before. Then again, she was only sure that my treatment wouldn't work, and that she'd hurt me, but she'd had the chance and had only used it to restrain herself.

The officer hums, nodding solemnly. "You know, when she first came here, she was in a barred cell and allowed to mix with the other women. She begged for that to change and when nobody listened, she attacked. I think she did it just to get her way, to prevent it from happening again, if that makes sense."

I frown at the newfound knowledge, looking over to the blonde woman before me. "But she still—"

"She still lashes out, yeah." She nods. "But never unprovoked"

Another moment of silence passes as I consider this before I push myself to stand. "Well, thank you for your help today, Officer..." I glance at her nametag. "Hansen. It means a lot."

"Please, call me Dinah." The woman smiles, holding out her hand to shake. I do so, glad to have found an ally in this establishment.

"Lauren." I grin in return, gathering Camila's file and slipping it into my satchel. I thank her again as she holds the door open for me, and we part ways as I head to the exit of the prison.

I decide to head to the cafe on the corner opposite the prison—a rather unfortunate location for a cafe, although I suppose they must get plenty of business from the officers—and take some time to review today's events and plan how to proceed. All that comes to mind during my walk over there, however, is the image, now ingrained in my mind, of her teary eyes.