Chapter 1 No. 402

"Game on, brother," she whispered to the empty road.

The words were a puff of vapor in the biting wind, a promise made to the fading taillights that had just abandoned her. A moment ago, she had been inside that bubble of warmth and leather. Now, she was outside, and the story of how she got here began with a sound.

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they slid open. It was a sound like a dying animal, metal grinding against rusted metal.

Clarisa Dillon didn't flinch.

She stood on the other side of the perimeter, the wind whipping sand and grit against her cheeks. Her skin felt too tight for her face. Her eyes were dry. She hadn't blinked in what felt like hours.

The warden, a man with a neck as thick as a tree stump, tossed a clear plastic bag onto the dirt at her feet.

"Good luck, 402," he grunted. He didn't use her name. She hadn't heard her name spoken with anything other than disdain for three years.

Clarisa stared at the bag. Inside was a toothbrush, a cheap comb, and a small, leather-bound notebook. It wasn't something she had stolen; it was something she had earned the right to keep through sheer, bloody-minded survival, a secret she had smuggled out by sewing it into the thin lining of her hoodie every morning for a month. It was her life. It was everything she owned.

She bent down. Her spine popped audibly. Her movements were stiff, calculated, like a machine that hadn't been oiled. She snatched the bag before the wind could take it.

A black stretch Lincoln Navigator appeared on the horizon, cutting through the dust clouds. It looked like a hearse.

It stopped exactly three meters away.

The driver got out. He was wearing white gloves. He opened the rear door, his eyes darting to her face for a split second before looking away. There was pity there. Clarisa hated pity more than she hated the warden.

She walked toward the car. Every step was a negotiation with her body. Left foot, plant. Right foot, drag slightly. Don't limp. Don't show them you're broken.

She slid into the backseat. The door thudded shut, sealing her in a vacuum of silence and expensive leather.

Brady was there.

Her brother wore a navy suit that probably cost more than the camp's entire annual budget. He was typing on his phone, his brow furrowed in annoyance. He didn't look up for a full minute.

The air in the car smelled of sandalwood and conditioned air. It made Clarisa's stomach turn. She was used to the smell of bleach and unwashed bodies.

Brady finally looked up. His eyes raked over her.

She was wearing the grey sweatpants and oversized hoodie the camp had issued her upon release. They were stained and smelled of damp storage.

Brady's nose wrinkled. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face.

"Three years," he said, his voice muffled by the silk. "I thought you would have learned some hygiene. At least taken a shower."

Clarisa stared straight ahead. Her eyes were unfocused, looking at the partition between them and the driver. She said nothing.

Silence was the first weapon she had forged in the dark.

Brady slammed his leather portfolio shut. The sound was sharp in the quiet cabin. "Cat got your tongue? Mom and Dad are waiting for an apology."

Clarisa turned her head slowly. Her neck muscles felt like wire cables. Her eyes were voids.

"An apology?" Her voice was raspy, unused. "For what?"

Brady blinked. He looked genuinely surprised, then his expression hardened into a sneer. "For almost ruining Kaleigh. For the drugs. For being a public relations nightmare."

Clarisa felt a phantom sensation in her arm, a memory of a needle she hadn't asked for. She saw Kaleigh's face, tear-streaked and perfect, lying to the police.

A small, almost invisible smile touched the corner of Clarisa's mouth.

"Then you should definitely celebrate my return," she whispered. "I have so much to tell them."

Brady's face turned a shade of red that clashed with his tie. He interpreted her deadness as arrogance. He hated not being the smartest person in the room.

He hit the intercom button.

"Stop the car," he barked.

The brakes engaged hard. Clarisa's body flew forward. Her chest slammed into the back of the front seat.

She made a small, sharp sound as the impact hit her lower ribs. There was a deep, agonizing bruise there, layered over ribs that had cracked months ago and never set right. Pain radiated outward like a starburst, white and hot.

Brady pointed at the door.

"If you're going to be a bitch, you can walk," he said. "Maybe the rain will wash the stink off you. Think about your attitude before you step foot in my house."

Clarisa looked out the window. The sky was bruising purple and black. A storm was coming. They were miles from the estate, on a lonely stretch of highway surrounded by nothing but scrub brush.

She didn't beg. She didn't cry.

She didn't even hesitate.

Clarisa reached for the handle. She pushed the door open. The wind howled, rushing into the sanitized cabin like a physical intruder.

Brady looked stunned. He had expected her to grab his arm, to plead, to be the dramatic, emotional mess she used to be.

Clarisa stepped out. Her sneakers hit the gravel.

She slammed the door. Bang.

The Lincoln didn't wait. The driver was already scrambling back into his seat, the door thudding shut a second before the engine roared. It peeled away, tires screeching, kicking up a cloud of dust that coated her tongue. Clarisa stood on the side of the road, clutching her plastic bag to her chest.

She watched the taillights fade into the gloom.