Camila has switched. I realise it the second the door slams shut and she keeps on her cold façade, a smirk slowly growing on her lips. At some point last night, she switched from one extreme she'd described to the other. She's murderous. She's a Cabello again.

"Hello, Camila." I push through regardless. "How are you feeling today?"

Her fingernail drags back and forth on the table, causing a slight scraping sound that is just the right pitch to feel it deep in my ear. Her tongue darts over her teeth and she juts out her chin as she stares at me through her heavy lashes. "I'm great, Doc." Her voice is heady, and I have to look down at the table to defend myself from her allure. "How are you?"

"I'm good." I nod slowly, tucking the comics I'd brought again back into the folder. "Would you like to talk about how you're feeling?"

Without missing a beat, she answers with a wink, "I'd much rather show you."

"Ah, but you won't let yourself out of those cuffs, will you?" I challenge, controlling my body's reaction. This persona of hers is likely just a defence mechanism, I remind myself.

She looks down to the silver circling her wrists and snarls. I know I'm right, and she does too.

"How's your new bedding?"

Late last night, the warden replied to my disgruntled email, claiming he had no idea an inmate was going without the necessities that she was. I find that hard to believe, but he promised she'd receive fresh new bedding and clothing, as well as having some privileges reinstated; others would take a little proof that she could control herself and wouldn't endanger the guards or other inmates.

Camila tugs at her cuffs. "You can't bribe me. I know my rights."

"I'm not bribing you," I frown.

"I don't need shit like that. You wanna act like you care about me so you can "treat" me and look fucking amazing. Just give me some fucking meds so I can fade til I'm dead, yeah?"

Despite the harshness of her words, something in her eyes is desperately pleading with me. It's quickly swallowed by the ink I've become familiar with, but it was there. I saw it.

Hoping I can break though and access the open, honest Camila I know, I push on, "I do care about you. That's why I'm still here. Do you know why I'm filming our sessions?"

"I don't know, for your resumé," She states. "Or your ego."

"So I can prove you innocent when they indict you." I correct, and her expression slowly drops, leaving behind a blank state. "Someone's building a case against you, Camila. Capital Murder. First degree. Do you know what that means?"

I can visibly see the struggle within herself. I allow her a moment of silence as her face repeatedly shifts from anger to confusion and vice versa. Then, she simply gives in, letting the anger consume her. Her eyes fall to the table and she sinks in her seat, sitting like a rebellious teen in detention.

"Means you better hurry with the drugs."

"Okay," I sigh, leaning back in my seat too. I slip the tablet back into my bag, noticing how she sits more upright and watches my actions cautiously. When I glance at her, she quickly replaces her wariness with confidence.

"Told you it wouldn't work."

I let her think I'm leaving, even going to the effort of moving my bag, only to place it on the floor beside my seat. I plant my elbows on the table and rest my chin on my interlocked hands, staring her down. When she realises I'm not going anywhere, she huffs, leans back once more, and picks at her fingernails. It doesn't take a genius to know she's relieved. Minutes pass before she speaks.

"Thank you."

"For...?"

She glares at me, which almost makes me chuckle. Finally, she surrenders. "Thank you for the blanket."

"You're welcome." I grin, "What else did you get?"

She quietly rattles off a list of the things that she's received, including a more reasonable supply of toilet paper, more frequent shower privileges, and the right to eat lunch in the cafeteria with the other female inmates, which she quickly states that she does not want to do, ever. My smile grows and I make a mental note to thank the warden.

Once she's done, she looks up at me with a slight frown.

"You changed all that shit for me?"

I nod.

"Can you... I need a light."

My brows furrow. "A lighter? You can't smoke in here—"

Her head rapidly shakes from side to side. "No, a light. Please, I can't..." she slaps her lips shut, looking down at her file. "You might want to film this."

Even more confused than before, I lean down to pull my bag back onto the table, deciding to start a fresh new video on the tablet. She watches to ensure it's recording before taking a deep breath.

"We had a basement."

Eyes widening as I realise she's confessing something, I scramble to take out a fresh notes page and begin writing down what she says, in case the video corrupts.

"Go on," I prompt when I glance up to see she's watching my pencil.

"We had a basement and it was— When Mami taught me, it was words, posture, planning, all the subtle behind-the-scenes shit. When Papi taught me, he treat me like his men. He was practical. We had a basement, and he'd put new men down there, or men who needed to learn a fucking lesson." Despite her angry exterior, the heaving of her chest and the way her eyes can't stay still show just how nervous she is. I want to reach out to hold her hand again, but I don't want to disrupt this valuable story. "It was dark, so dark. I couldn't see anything, I- I thought he'd blinded me, and I was down there for so long, I-" her fingers begin to undulate, a sign I now know clearly shows that she's distressed. "All I could hear was my own heartbeat. All I could see was... faces. Monsters. I was just a kid."

I remember her reaction to the comic yesterday. "Like the last comic?"

She looks up at me and nods slowly. I shuffle through the pages for the comic and give her a warning glance. She looks away while I show it to the camera, for future reference.

"Prolonged time spent without sensory stimulation can lead to hallucinations," I explain. "It's not uncommon, but it is uncommon to be put in that situation, especially as a child. How long were you down there?"

"Sometimes just a day. Sometimes long enough that when I was allowed upstairs, I'd empty the kitchen cupboards. Sometimes long enough that they'd take food down for me. First time was two weeks."

"How old were you?"

"It started when I was 9."

Heat flares in my veins, and I know it's absolute disgust and anger at her parents. Two weeks in a dark room is damaging for anybody, but to be a child... no wonder she's ended up this way, and I'm sure that's the least of their torturous ways.

"Do you know why they'd put you down there?"

"Punishment... for showing sensitivity. It was also so I'd be able to endure isolation like that, in case I was ever taken. I think they wanted me to escape but... I never could. I was scared of what would happen if I did." There's a small pause. Her anger seems to ebb away as tears well in her eyes. She continues, "So, I need a light. My cell doesn't get as dark but I still see them, I still remember. Please."

I take a grounding breath and finally throw my hand across the table. She takes it tightly in her grasp once more.

"Por favor," she repeats, even more desperately this time.

All I can do is promise, "I'll try."

The moment the words leave my mouth, she releases my hand, tips her head back, and restores her vexed aura despite the few tears that remain.