Camila's behaviour has me wracking my brain for an explanation. The first time I met her, I'd gone into the interrogation room expecting a cocksure criminal with an entitled state of mind, fully believing she's superior to the rest of society, breaking the law just for the thrill of eyes on her. Those, of course, are the kind of criminal I'm most familiar with. When I laid eyes upon her, noticed how small she was, how she permeated anger in such a "please believe that I'm crazy" sort of way, I thought perhaps she was trying to prove herself with her crimes. Now, I'm questioning whether she'd even be capable of the crimes she has committed. I have to remind myself of the evidence stacked against her, and that she is truly guilty of such violent deeds as I have watched her commit.

I can't let myself get too sentimental.

As I enter the prison, I am forced to recall my true role here. While I'm passionate about the treatment and rehabilitation of criminals, a large portion of the reason my job exists is for the prison to look better in the eyes of the public. The law doesn't care all too much about the physical well-being of convicted criminals, nevermind their mental state, but to create a positive public image, the prison hires people like me. They don't really care if our treatment goes to plan, nor what that plan is in the first place. We're here tokens. Our name and qualifications on the payroll is enough for them.

"We can't let you see 776 today."

I roll my eyes at the man behind the desk.

"You've already taken three weeks from my first month of treatment." I sigh, placing my satchel on the desk to alleviate the weight from my shoulder. "You can't keep me away from her and expect my treatment to go well. She needs consistency."

"What 776 needs is punishment. They all do," The man growls, but looks away from me in favour of his computer screen. Oh, so he's one of those officers.

"Okay, so I can't see her. Can you tell me why?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Confidential."

I'm her doctor, I want to groan, but kept my tone cool and understanding.

"Can I speak with Officer Hansen?"

He squints up at me but apparently sees no harm in my request and uses his radio to call the officer in. I wait by the desk until she greets me from the door, smiling and waving and beckoning me towards her.

"Let's go," she mutters once I'm close enough to hear, quickly pulling the door shut behind me.

"Why are they keeping her back?" I question. When she takes off towards the cells, I have to jog to keep up, her strides certainly longer than mine.

"She's... distressed, lashing out. We think she heard news about the case being built against her and—"

"Wait, a case?"

The officer sighs and pauses, turning to face me but taking a moment before looking down into my eyes. "They're working on indicting her for capital homicide of the first degree. It's no secret she's guilty but—"

"But I— she'll be executed!" My mind struggles to wrap itself around this new information. Capital homicide means capital punishment, something I, as a criminal psychologist and a human, firmly disagree with. I can only imagine the turmoil she's now under.

Dinah nods solemnly. "I wish there was more we could do. At this point, it's just about waiting to see what the grand jury thinks once they gather enough evidence to make a case."

I turn to continue in the direction she was taking me, explaining with a brief, "I need to see her."

She hurries ahead and takes me to her cell with no further conversation. Once there, I thank her quietly before sliding open the slot in the door, peering into the small cell. A nerve in my temple twitches in anger when I find that she still has no bedding, confirming that the other officer was lying to me when she told me the lack of it was due to the laundry schedule. Camila is huddled into a tight ball on the bare mattress, facing away from the door and once again tangled in a straitjacket. Before I can ask permission to enter, Dinah reaches over to unlock the door. I smile in gratitude and slip into the cell.

Camila doesn't react to my presence, so I take the time to investigate her living conditions. One's physical environment can have a substantial effect on their mental wellbeing. While there isn't much I can do about decorating a cell, I'm sure I'll be able to think of something to improve the room. Adequate amenities will be a start.

The cell is drab, of course, but it's not the worst I've seen. The textured plaster walls are two-tone, with the bottom half a cyan just a shade darker than her jumpsuit while the top and ceiling are a pale grey-ish blue. The floor is polished concrete, as throughout the rest of the facility.

Movement distracts me before I can inspect the toilet-sink combo in the toilet. I look over to the mattress to watch as she stretches her legs out as far as they'll go before rolling onto her back, eyes glazed over as she stares at the ceiling. She still doesn't acknowledge my presence, even when I lower myself to sit at the end of her mattress, cringing at the lack of padding it offers.

"How are you feeling?" I question, my voice barely above a whisper but loud in the otherwise silent room.

She scoffs, shaking her head slowly. "Fuck off."

I give her a moment, then move to take my satchel from my shoulder and place it beside me, leaning back against the wall with my legs outstretched along the floor. My palms run along my thighs as I turn back to her. "Can I ask you something, Camila?"

As if the name were the key, she finally raises her head to look over at me, something strange dancing in her eyes. I take it as a cue to continue.

"Why 'Camila'? Where does it come from?"

A little awkwardly, though evidently in a practised manner, she manages to shuffle to sit against the wall, her legs crossed beneath her. She looks to me as if confused, though about what exactly, I'm unsure. Perhaps, I consider, simply by the fact that I'm curious, that I've asked. She raises a brow and inhales sharply. "Middle name," She mutters. "Meant I was... good."

Approval. That's the answer I was looking for, the reason to which I've been blind. All of it, all of her behaviour, her crimes, her anger, even her breakdown was a plea for approval, for somebody to notice and tell her that she did a good job, albeit by rather unorthodox means. Her methods aren't products of any fault of hers, though. She didn't choose to be raised in such a violent life. The videos I've seen flash in my mind: her hands trembling, her father's guidance, the instant regret. She didn't want to break the law, she just wanted to be good. She had no malicious intent. Dare I say... she's innocent, to an extent.

Another realisation dawns upon me.

I've got to save her.

She shuffles, seemingly straining against her restraints, and I consider taking the jacket from her before recalling what had happened when I'd taken a simple pair of handcuffs from her.

"Are you uncomfortable?" I decide to ask instead, watching as she rapidly and almost desperately shakes her head in denial. I only nod, still deep in thought.

My other patients were relatively easy. With them, it was a case of simply getting them to realise that what they'd done was wrong, occasionally diagnosing them and providing treatment, and supplying ways to cope with their diminished opportunities. Depression is the most common diagnosis I give, and often sparked by their time incarcerated; Delusions of grandeur follow. It's rare to find a case as complex and seemingly unpredictable as hers.

I'm surprised when she speaks up, unprompted. "They want to kill me."

"Who does?"

She stretches her legs out, then crosses them again. "La Familia. They want to kill me. They've probably already killed Sofi. I tried to keep her safe, I did, but..." She looks down and shakes her head disapprovingly. "I shouldn't have done it." I open my mouth to speak, recognising this as a chance to learn more, but she interrupts me. "You need to leave."

I shake my head softly and keep my tone gentle. "We've lost enough time, Camila."

"No, you need to go. You don't get it, you— please leave."

I glance at the door. "Are you going to harm me?"

She hesitates, mouth gaping like a fish out of water, and furrows her brows. "Yes."

"You're not very capable right now." I gesture towards the straitjacket I still despise. Her eyes snap to mine, dark like when I'd met her. I convince myself it's just an act, remind myself of the pleading expression, the trembling, the regret she just admitted. This is her upbringing talking. She's acting purely on how she's been told to act.

She hums, though it sounds dangerously growl-like, and leans closer to me. I don't back away despite the tension building in my muscles as my body prepares to flee. I ensure that I keep eye contact, though my mind is focused on the door, hoping against hope that Dinah is still out there in the case that she follows through with her own caution. She leans in all the way, hot breath billowing against my ear. I'm reminded of her blood-stained teeth and grimace.

Alphas aren't afraid to bite.

But her father said that, not her. Even when imprisoned, she's living by their rules.

"I like you," She whispers, chuckling darkly. Goosebumps spread over my skin, which perplexes me. The confusion is pushed aside by my focus in favour of physical sensation when she bites softly on my earlobe. Whether due to her actions or my reaction, I can't help but wonder what she'd be like if she was still free, if she hadn't been raised by syndicates, if she wasn't a violent criminal. Would we have ever met? Would we get along?

"This isn't appropriate," I mutter, gently pushing her away until she falls back on her backside.

A huge smile cracks her face and she draws her bottom lip between her teeth. "You're blushing." She comments, her voice still deep and almost husky.

"I'm your doctor."

"So treat me."

To avoid the way she smirks as she ever so un-subtly stretches her legs out to lay one foot on either side of me, I gulp down my instinctual reaction and reach over for my bag instead. Somehow, she's getting me flustered while still in that damn jacket. I pull out her file and scan over the notes I've already taken, clinging onto hope that I'll find a reasonable topic of conversation.

"Can you tell me about the memory yet?"

She rolls her eyes and tucks her legs up, leaning against the wall behind her. "No."

"Why not?"

"Who have you worked with?" It's an obvious change of subject, but I let it slide this time. At least it's not remotely flirtatious.

"What do you mean?"

"You've obviously got experience or they wouldn't have put you in with me. Who's the most dangerous person you've treated? No names, I know you doctors are pissy about that, just... what did they do?"

She's challenging me. My brow quirks in amusement. "I treat the most dangerous of people. Burglars, murderers, rapists. I treated a man who claims to have killed hundreds."

She scoffs almost silently, chewing on the inside of her cheek. After a while, she nods and asks, "What's the worst thing you've done?"

"Legally or morally?"

She snorts, laying her head on the wall and looking back up at the ceiling. "Smartass. Legally."

"I accidentally stole a lipstick as a kid," I admit, remembering the sick feeling I'd gotten when my mother berated me when she realised she hadn't paid for it as I'd stowed it inside a little purse at the register.

"Boring!" She groans, tapping my legs with her toes as she swings her feet back and forth gently. I watch the motion and take a mental note to observe her behaviour when she's unrestrained. It's can sometimes serve as a clue as to what's going on inside. "Plus," she lifts her head and smirks at me, though it seems more mischievous than before, "I don't believe you. You definitely used to party hard as a teen. I bet you took more stuff than you even know." At my eyes widening, she retracts her statement. "Okay, maybe not, but mary for sure."

"Weed?" I raise my brow.

"I knew it." She smiles, seemingly genuinely happy with herself, and for a moment, I get lost in noticing little detail, like the slight strain on her pink lips and the tiny dimples at their corners. Damnit, no. I've got to get her out of my head.

When I zone back in, she has already continued to talk. "... scared to tell even me, like I'm going to judge you for it. The people I know would judge you for that being the only thing you've done. I hope you at least smoked it; Edibles are for the fucking weak."

"What about you?" I find myself blurting, though I'm sure I've seen the answer on paper.

She stares at me incredulously, then shakes her head. "You don't want to know."

"It's kinda my job to know, Camila."

"I plead the fifth." She grins proudly.

I let out a small snort and turn back to my notes, though there aren't many. Clearing my throat, I flick through her file to ensure there's nothing more I want to talk about before looking back to her. She's mouthing something incoherent, or just moving her lips, and I frown.

"What?" She frowns, and I realise I must've been staring.

"I'm going to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

She nods, turns her eyes to the mattress below her, and shifts to lay down once more. I hesitate to leave but know I can't stay here all day. I'm just glad the session is going to end on my terms this time, rather than with her being torn away prematurely.

I knock twice on the steel door before Dinah opens it from the other side, looking at me with a sort of hope in her eyes.

She waits until I close the door behind myself before asking, "Should I take the jacket off of her?" and I truly have to think about it for a moment.

"At some point before you leave, yeah, but leave it on her for a while." She frowns with wide eyes so I clarify, "I'm not sure why, but it comforts her."

...

👀

Thoughts?