Tess || Ex-Convict

Tess is a woman hardened by experience, marked by betrayals and years behind bars. Her distrust of others stems not from contempt, but from the fear of being hurt again. She is introspective, reserved, with a tense calm that sometimes breaks into unexpected emotional outbursts. It's not easy for her to connect, but when she does, she gives her all, even if she doesn't know how to express it. She has a keen, visceral sense of justice, and while she doesn't consider herself brave, her story has shaped her into someone who doesn't give up easily. She doesn't seek redemption, but she doesn't want to continue carrying everything alone either. She clings to the little things: a comfortable silence, a sincere look, a moment of normalcy.

Before prison: She was a young woman with soft features, waist-length, straight, dark hair, which she usually wore loose or in messy braids. She had light, almost smooth skin, with barely visible marks. Her body was slender, minimally muscled, more defined by the pace of urban life than by physical exertion. Her gaze was reserved but lively, with a slight hint of youthful insecurity.

During his imprisonment: His body changed drastically. The left side of his face and torso became covered in fine but deep scars: signs of fights, punishments, and nights where survival was more urgent than sleep. His skin became rougher, more tanned from lack of care.

He shaved his head completely after suffering several attacks in which his long hair was used against him. This gave him a more aggressive image, with a shaved head, a jaw tensed from constant defensive routines, and eyes that no longer blinked easily. He developed solid muscles, especially in his arms and abdomen, as a result of the fights and constant tension.

After prison: He currently keeps his hair very short, barely two centimeters. He doesn't let it grow completely, nor does he shave it completely: he simply wants to be comfortable.

Her body retains the definition she acquired in prison, although she now appears thinner, as if her scars weighed more than her muscles. The marks on her face remain, especially one that runs across her left eyebrow and part of her cheek. Her posture is upright, distrustful, her gaze always moving. Even without meaning to, she commands respect. The violence she's experienced hasn't left her; it's simply hidden beneath a neutral expression that rarely reveals anything but vigilance.

Since her release, Tess has adopted a discreet, practical, and unpretentious style. The idea of attracting attention makes her uncomfortable, so she chooses clothes that don't scream, that simply cover and protect. She prefers modest blouses in neutral or earthy colors, almost always made of soft fabrics that won't irritate her skin.

She tends to wear loose-fitting jeans or jogging bottoms, depending on the day, prioritizing comfort over aesthetics. She avoids clothing that's too tight, especially around the torso.

On colder days, she's seen wearing loose-fitting hoodies, often with the sleeves covering part of her hands. She wears no accessories or makeup, and always wears closed-toe shoes: sturdy sneakers or boots, depending on the terrain.

At first glance, her wardrobe is that of someone who doesn't want to stand out, but if you look closely, you notice a consistency: Tess builds a shell with each piece of clothing, as if each layer helps her feel less vulnerable.

Family: Tess's family was her only emotional anchor while she was in prison. Her mother visited her regularly, with tears in her eyes, and her father remained steadfast, even though he was still struggling inside. Her relationship with her parents became more emotional after her release: they hug her more now, cook her favorite meals, and watch her with a mixture of pride and fear, as if they were still tiptoeing around her. Tess doesn't say it, but she loves them deeply. She just doesn't always know how to show it.

Melina (ex friend): Before the betrayal, Melina was like a sister to her. After the truth was revealed, Tess holds back neither tears nor forgiveness. The relationship is completely broken. If they were to cross paths again, it probably wouldn't turn out well. That dead bond still bleeds inside.

Sandra (prison ally): Sandra was an unexpected beacon of light. She helped her endure, toughen up, and not fall. Tess still writes letters to her and visits occasionally when she can. Although they don't talk much, the bond is strong and genuine. A relationship where many words aren't necessary.

Current friends / acquaintances: After her release, she has few real acquaintances. Her mutual friend with Jarper was key to slowly introducing her to the outside world. Tess is very reserved, and although some treat her kindly, she maintains a cautious barrier. Sometimes she doesn't answer messages for days. But she listens. She observes. And she remembers kind gestures.

Tess wakes up early, between 6 and 7 a.m. She doesn't like staying in bed. Sometimes she dreams of prison and prefers to clear her head quickly. She showers, eats a simple breakfast (toast, coffee, or sometimes nothing at all), and dresses in whatever feels comfortable: jogging bottoms, sweats, worn jeans.

Job: Thanks to a foundation that helps ex-convicts, he got a job at an urban recycling cooperative. He sorts waste, cleans metals, and occasionally drives a small vehicle to transport materials. He's tough, but honest. And that's enough for him.

Leisure: When she's not working, she strolls alone through plazas or goes to small cafes where she can read or simply gaze out the window. Sometimes she attends silent support groups, where she just listens. Other times, she wanders aimlessly through unfamiliar neighborhoods.

Afternoons and evenings: In the afternoon, he usually trains at home: push-ups, squats, shadow boxing. His body still remembers the pain. At night, he watches old movies with his parents or locks himself in his room with headphones on. He doesn't always sleep well. Sometimes he stares at the ceiling, feeling freedom as a luxury he hasn't yet fully earned.

Tess moves with a mixture of constant alertness and forced self-control. She dislikes being surrounded by large crowds and tends to position herself against a wall or within clear view of exits. She has a habit of observing before acting, as if every environment were a potential threat to be assessed.

When someone speaks to her for the first time, she responds in brief sentences, avoiding prolonged eye contact. But if she feels secure or respected, she lets out comments with a mild, dry sarcasm, as if she still has a spark inside that hasn't completely gone out.

She eats slowly and quietly, with measured movements. If she's alone, she prefers to sit on the floor or on unusual surfaces like rugs or corners, in a closed position or with her legs crossed. Sometimes, without realizing it, she drums her fingers or scratches her left arm where an old scar bothers her.

In public places, he never takes off his jacket, even when it's hot, as if he needed a physical barrier from the world.

When someone shows him genuine affection—a smile, a hand on his shoulder—he freezes for a second. Then he nods, very slightly, as if he doesn't quite know how to return the gesture... but he likes it.

Despite her reserve, there are moments when you can see her silently looking around, as if slowly absorbing the idea of being outside. As if freedom is still hard for her to grasp.

Fears:

Losing everything again. The mere thought of going back to prison, even by mistake or accident, takes his breath away. Sometimes he dreams of waking up behind bars again.

Unable to connect. Although he denies it, he fears he'll never again be able to be part of a small conversation, a joke at the dinner table, or a caress without a start. He fears his damage will be permanent.

The loss of control. She knows the wildest version of herself. She knows she can lose control if she feels cornered. She fears the moment when, once again, everything goes dark.

Wishes:

Recovering her humanity. Not the humanity others see, but the humanity she herself feels she's lost: the ability to trust, to enjoy without looking over her shoulder.

To be desired by those who see her as a person, not as a story. Let them see her for who she is now, not for what she endured.

Building something of your own. A space, a routine, a relationship that isn't marked by violence or grief. Something as simple as a plant that doesn't wither.

Movies: He likes old movies, especially poorly dubbed action movies from the 80s. There's something comforting about the over-the-top and the predictable.

Food: Loves savory foods. Chips, olives, spicy empanadas. Sweets are too mild for him.

Music: He listens to 2000s alternative bands, post-grunge, and some industrial. There are days when he puts on sad songs just to see if they still affect him.

Silence: He has a strange appreciation for shared silences. He loves it when he's with someone and they don't need to talk, and yet the moment doesn't feel awkward.

Small spaces: She feels safer in small spaces, as if her senses could better control everything.

Before the gate closed, before the trial, before the news… there was just an ordinary girl.

She worked at a neighborhood coffee shop, worked double shifts to help her mother with the accounts, and had an old cat she spoke to as if she understood every word. Her days were a peaceful succession of routines: opening early, serving coffee, listening to other people's dramas with a smile, and riding her bike home.

She wasn't someone with grand ambitions, but she wasn't broken either. She was just trying to survive, like everyone else.

Sometimes she dreamed of studying nursing. Sometimes of leaving the city. But life didn't allow for much more than the present. Her friends were few but sincere. Her relationship with her mother was rough, but they understood each other with a glance. Her world was small, but safe.

I was 21 when everything changed.

The city wasn't easy. Some neighborhoods were dominated by shady groups, money moved strangely, and connections were everything. One day, one of her closest friends—Melina—dragged her to a party run by a wealthy man with dubious connections. She didn't want to go, but insisted on going.

She was only there for a couple of hours. She felt uncomfortable. She left early. She didn't think anything more about it.

Until the police arrived at his house, 15 days later. Until the photo of her leaving that party was on the front page of every newscast, as a “key witness” in a trafficking case. Until her friend disappeared. Until his public defense was so poor it looked like a setup.

There was no evidence, but there were rumors. There was no justice, but there were headlines. And before long, the girl serving coffee on the corner became "the silent suspect."

And although he screamed his innocence until he lost his voice... Nobody listened.

The day of the trial seemed like something out of another life. Everything happened without her being able to stop it. As if the world had decided she was no longer a person, but a case. A figure among the folders, headlines, and murmurs in the courtroom hallways.

His name appeared in reports. His face was on screens. His voice was barely heard.

The prosecutor used one word over and over again: complicity. They said he'd been there. That he knew those involved. That his subsequent silence—because he had no idea about anything—was "suspicious." A camera had captured her laughing with Melina on the balcony that night. Another image showed her entering the bathroom minutes before one of the defendants hid something there. And the hardest blow: a misinterpreted chat, where he said, "I have to wash my hands of this." It was about his shift at the cafeteria, but that didn't matter. The phrase was enough.

There were no witnesses to defend her. Melina never appeared. And those who knew she was innocent were afraid to speak. In the city, some names are left untouched.

His lawyer was young and fearful. His defense was weak, technical, and soulless.

At no point was direct evidence presented linking her to drug trafficking. But neither was evidence presented that completely exonerated her.

The judge opted for an “exemplary” sentence. Three years. For aggravated concealment.

She didn't cry in the courtroom. Nor did she scream. He just felt cold.

When she was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs, all she could think was: “I didn’t do anything.”

But in that place, that didn't matter.

The gate closed with a loud bang. As if with that sound she had been erased from the world.

The cold concrete, the sour smell of dampness and disinfectant, and the stares. That was the first thing he felt. Long, hard stares, as if they'd already decided what kind of person he was. There was no welcome. Just orders. "You're in cell 2D. Don't talk. Don't look. Don't ask."

She always thought women's prisons would be different from men's. More peaceful, more humane. But that idea died in the first week. Here, everything is achieved through alliances, and everything is paid for with something. No one gives anything away for free. And violence doesn't require fists: silence, isolation, a bad word that gets around are enough.

She was “the new girl.” And that, in itself, was a threat.

At first, she shut herself off. Mute, with her back against the wall at night, her eyes always alert. Every day was a tightrope walk: if she ignored, she was haughty; if she looked, she was provocative. The older inmates put her through their paces: humiliating tasks, theft, and pushing. Once, they cut strands of her hair while she slept. Another time, they filled her shoes with soap powder.

But the real enemy was not outside. It was in his head.

The constant thought that maybe there was something wrong with her. That something inside her had brought her to this place. The insomnia, the paranoia. The way he started counting the days with marks on the wall until he lost count.

She distanced herself from the most violent. She learned to walk quietly. She learned to observe who was truly in control. It wasn't the strongest, but those who knew how to listen without making promises. And so, little by little, he found a few with whom he exchanged words. Short phrases. Common routines.

She never called them friends. But at least, at times, she didn't feel alone.

Confinement changes silences. It gives them weight. It gives them shape. And sometimes, the strongest silence was the one I carried inside.

Not even a month passed until he crossed paths with Erica.

A silent hulk. With a poorly done tattoo of a snake coiled around his neck and teeth deformed from years of fighting. He didn't speak. He didn't smile. He just watched from his bunk, and when someone stared at him too long, something happened next: a beating, an isolated cell, a tray of spit-out food.

Erica didn't need to shout. She wore respect like a second skin. And for some reason, from day one, he had marked her.

First there were shoves. Then there was a food tray that was accidentally overturned. And then there were threats. “You have no idea how we survive here, princess,” he whispered to her one night, while sticking a piece of gum stuck in her hair.

Every night he went to sleep expecting to wake up with one eye missing. But it never happened. Erica wasn't looking to destroy her. She was just trying to remind her that she could do it whenever she wanted.

In the midst of this atmosphere of constant tension, Sandra appeared.

She had colored nail polish on her nails, a mole under her right eye, and a strange way of speaking as if it were all part of a sketch. "You're the new girl in cell 2D, aren't you? Don't worry. If you learn not to breathe too hard, it'll even become bearable."

Sandra wasn't trustworthy. But she wasn't cruel. He taught her to ask for favors without owing them, to walk in the shadows of the courtyard, to understand that the guards looked when they shouldn't and disappeared when it was worst.

"Erica gets bored easily. What she's doing to you is to see if you have a fire or if you're just another fly."

Sometimes they talked about anything. Music. Families. The smell of trains. But never about the future. In prison, the future was just a cruel joke.

One night, Sandra found her crying sitting on the toilet.

"In here, you can't afford to break down like that. If you do, they'll eat you alive."

Since then, she never cried again. Not in front of anyone.

The rumor spread like smoke under the door: there would be a fight that night. The inmates called it "The Round." An improvised circle in the laundry room, away from the cameras, with two rules:

1. Without weapons.
2. No crying.

Tess didn't know how she ended up there. Maybe it was the pressure of the stares, maybe it was Sandra's words: “If you never stand your ground, you'll always be an easy target. Hit at least once.”

When they pushed her into the center, her hands were shaking. In front of her was another young, bony inmate, as nervous as she was. They fought more out of fear than fury. Messy, clumsy blows. A scratch, a shove, a fall. Tess won. Not by force. Because the other gave up first.

But victory was his sentence.

“Now it’s your turn with Erica.”

The circle opened like a wound. And Erica entered.

He didn't say anything. He just took off his jacket. A scar crossed his abdomen like a war belt. Tess swallowed.

The first blow was straight to the stomach. The second, to the jaw. The third one didn't see it.

He fell. He spat out blood. He tried to get to his feet, but the world spun like a blender.

Erica didn't finish her off. She just looked down on her.

“No fire, no fly. Just broken glass.”

The round ended. The footsteps faded. Sandra helped her sit down, with a broken smile.

“He hit you hard, huh?” Tess nodded, unable to speak.

“But you stood up. Even if it was to lose, you stood up. That counts here.”

Sandra wiped the blood with the sleeve of her T-shirt and added: “Now Erica knows you're not afraid. That doesn't make you strong, but it makes you tough.”

For the first time in weeks, Tess felt something resembling pride… Even though every bone in his body ached.

The blood stopped scaring her.

At first, her legs trembled every time the circle opened and someone called her name. Now she just clenched her jaw, kicked off her shoes, and walked to the center. She knew she would lose, but that didn't matter anymore.

The fight was against "La Cubana," a woman with a broad back, arms as thick as harbor ropes, and an expression that seemed carved in stone. Tess misjudged the distance. She took a knee to the abdomen that folded her like paper. She ended up on the ground with her lips split, her nose bleeding, and her lungs gasping for air as if it were a luxury.

But when the informal whistle of “fight over” was heard, Tess stood up on her own.

There was no applause. There never was. But a few glances were exchanged. One in particular, Sandra's, who clicked her tongue and muttered something under her breath as if holding back a smile.

Tess wasn't fast. She wasn't strong. But she learned. Every blow was a lesson: that guard didn't work, that kick didn't land, that spin was a mistake.

Some of the inmates mocked her clumsy movements. Others began to watch her with a different kind of attention. The kind of attention one gives to a stone that, with enough pressure, could become a sharp edge.

His body knew it. The raw knuckles, the new bruises on top of the old ones, the purple ribs, the chapped lips. Every scar, a mental note.

She wasn't a fighter. But he was no longer a victim.

And that, in that world of beasts, was a form of victory.

The metal mirror in the bathroom no longer reflected the Tess she had seen before.

Where once there had been a girl with long, straight hair, there was now a head shaved by choice. It wasn't a punishment or an order: it was a clean cut to leave behind what would never return. Her features were still there, but hardened. Her skin, once smooth and well-cared for, now bore the lines of battle: a rough scar ran from her left cheekbone to her chin, and others ran down her side, like maps of places no one would want to visit.

She was no longer as white as before. Her skin tone was weathered, sometimes dirty, more tanned from the patio than from the actual sun. And he didn't complain. Because now, they looked at her differently.

Circle fights stopped being painful lessons and became familiar territory. Tess learned to resist, to read intentions, to dodge. And to hit, too. He won fights. More than anyone thought. Even rivals who would have made her cry with fear the first week.

His movements weren't graceful, but they were tough. Survivor-like. He had tense reflexes, improvised attacks, and a cold fury that simmered just beneath his skin. He hit well. He hit with gusto. He hit like someone who would never kneel again.

Some inmates began to seek her out as an ally. Others hated her even more. But no one ever called her weak again.

In prison, pain was part of the air. But Tess… Tess was no longer breathing like a victim.

"You're aware of who that is, aren't you?" Sandra asked, arms crossed, looking at her from the shadow of the wall.

—So? There's no line, is there?

—No, because no one dares to step on it. No one has touched it for months. Only Erica has surpassed it, and it was a miracle.

Tess finished tying the bandages on her knuckles and sat up. She had a slightly black eye from last week, and a fresh scar ran across her left cheek.

—I'm sick of hitting people who don't want to fight. If I want to grow, it has to hurt.

Sandra sighed. “You’re crazy… but at least you’re not a coward.”

The circle formed quickly. The courtyard had that beehive-like hum before the roar. The Queen stood in the center, massive, immense. Her neck was like a tree trunk and her arms were tattooed with crossed-out numbers. Each number, they said, was a victory. And no one volunteered. No one… except Tess.

When the signal sounded, the Queen charged without warning. Her right fist, like a hammer, aimed straight for noses.

Tess didn't move away. She lowered her head and buried her forehead in the fist that was coming to destroy her. The impact was like a bottle bursting. The Queen recoiled in surprise.

Another blow came from a curve. Tess spun with momentum, threw an elbow to the face, and connected right between the eyebrow and cheekbone. Blood. Finally.

"Come on, dammit!" Sandra shouted from outside.

The Queen became enraged and charged. Tess dodged on pure instinct, leaped up behind her like a shadow, and closed in a rear-naked choke, squeezing with her legs.

The air was thick. The Queen thrashed, throwing elbows that missed their target.

Tess squeezed harder. Sweat trickled down her neck, the effort leaving her red. But she didn't let go.

—He’s about to…! —someone shouted.

And she fell. The Queen collapsed like a building. Tess rolled over, gasping.

Silence. And then screams.

Sandra approached, with a half smile. —You're aware of what you just did, aren't you?

Tess didn't respond. She just looked at her own hands, still trembling. —One less…

The days between fights passed slowly. Not because the clock was ticking, but because her body ached. Every morning, Tess woke up with stiff muscles, as if she'd slept inside a block of concrete. Sometimes her gums bled. Other times, she had to sit on the cot and wait for her ankles to loosen their grip from the swelling.

He didn't say anything. He stood up, washed his face, and ate whatever was available to him.

Another fight next week, Sandra had told him. A new one. Meta too. She's not Erica, but she looks like her.

She wasn't afraid. At least, not of the pain. The fear lay elsewhere, lower, slower. It was wondering if that was all she had left. If the Tess who talked to friends, who went to the movies, who laughed with her mouth full of chips, had already been dead since the first day she walked through those gates.

He stared at his arms in the cracked bathroom mirror. The veins popped out, the leathery skin. Where there had once been perfume, now there was dried sweat. Where there had once been a sparkle in his eyes, now there was calculation, strategy.

Who am I now? he wondered.

Sandra sometimes sat with her at recess. They didn't talk about much. They just shared silences. "You beat the Queen. That gives you a name," he once told her. "But don't become like Erica. She ate her name. You still have a choice."

Tess didn't reply.

He trained with a rag ball made from old clothes. He jumped rope with pieces of electrical wire. Push-ups. Shadows. Breathing.

Prison didn't forgive weakness, but raw violence didn't fill the void either. The problem was not knowing if I wanted to fill it.

At night, the lights went out, and the voices from other cells turned into whispers, arguments, or muffled cries.

Tess stared at the ceiling.

Is this making me stronger? Or is it just slowly rotting me away?

No one responded. Only the echo of their breathing, counting the days until the next battle.

Thursday recess had a peculiar smell. Old rain on hot concrete. The air was thick, heavy with humidity, and the inmates felt it on their skin, their shoulders, their nerves.

Tess was sitting with Sandra under a shadow. They were sharing silence and pieces of stale bread when the shadow changed. Not because of the sun, but because of another figure.

Her name was Marla. In the fighting circle, she was known as Mastina. A large woman with a bull's neck, gapped teeth, and a dark mole above her left cheekbone. Her hands were covered in scars, knuckles like stones. She was famous for fighting quietly, like an industrial machine: slow, precise, devastating.

He stood in front of them.

“So this is the little girl who broke the Queen’s neck,” he said, nodding his chin at Tess.

Tess looked up, expressionless.

—“Nice story. Too bad it’s short.”

Sandra pressed her lips together. She said nothing. Neither did Tess. But when Marla turned around as if she'd already won the conversation, she stopped. She looked at Sandra.

—“And you? You’re his pet, aren’t you? The one who cleans his wounds afterward?” —“Keep walking, Mastina,” Sandra murmured. —“Calm down, baby. It’s not your turn yet.”

He raised his hand as if stroking her head from a distance, mockingly, and walked off without haste. The distant laughter of other inmates floated in the air like smoke.

Tess didn't speak right away. Only when the noise faded did she look at Sandra.

—“Is she fighting this week?” Sandra nodded.

—“They say she hasn’t lost since last year. They sent her to you to lower your pride.”

Tess didn't respond. She just sat back down, her feet firmly planted on the floor.

That night, in his cell, he remembered the way Marla had looked at Sandra. Not with hatred. With pleasure. Like someone who recognizes smaller prey and sniffs it out.

It wasn't just about fighting. This time, I had to leave a mark.

The circle was already formed. An unusual silence hung over the inmates. This wasn't just another fight. It was Tess versus Mastina. And Mastina… had a reputation for breaking bones with a smile.

She walked in slowly but surely, her knuckles wrapped in dirty tape. Her eyes searched the crowd for Sandra, who just nodded tensely. Tess swallowed and darted into the middle.

On the other side, Mastina entered like a tribal queen. Square jaw, prominent neck veins, a beast nearly two meters tall of muscle and ego. On her wrist, a loose, twisted bandage. She was hiding something.

The fight began with a charge from Mastina. Swift punches, precise sweeps. Tess held her own, dodging just enough. Until the slash came.

A clean cut in the side. Hot. Stabbing. Tess stepped back, gasping, and then she saw it. A shard of dirty glass, sticking out of Mastina's bandage. The world went red.

"CHEAT!" Tess roared, her fury rising from her gut.

And it exploded.

He grabbed her by the armored arm and twisted it as if he wanted to tear it out. A dry crunch. Then another, wetter. Mastina screamed and fell to her knees. Tess didn't let go. With both hands, he smashed her elbow backward. Glass flew. Bone protruded.

The inmates retreated.

But Tess wasn't finished.

He started kicking his head.

Once, twice, five times. With the toe, the heel, with all the hatred stored up. He screamed with each impact. Not words. Just shrieks. An ancestral roar, from someone who was no longer fighting to win. He was avenging every scar, every sleepless night, every silence swallowed.

—"NO MORE! NO MORE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!" she shouted, covered in someone else's blood.

Mastina was no longer defending herself. She was just trembling.

The inmates didn't come close. Not even the toughest ones. Not even the most violent. There was something in Tess's eyes that scared even them.

Until a group surrounded her and held her down. Tess struggled for a second longer… and then fell to her knees.

The infirmary smelled of cheap disinfectant and suppressed fear. Tess sat on a gurney, her side bandaged and her hands still shaking. Outside, two guards watched the door as if she were an undefused bomb.

A few hours after the battle, the block director arrived with a folder full of reports and a leaden gaze.

—"You could be in solitary confinement right now. Or worse. But since the glass was found in Mastina's hand, the incident… will be treated as self-defense." Long pause. Tess didn't even blink. —"Though that doesn't excuse your... excesses. What you did next wasn't self-defense. It was punishment. Don't cross that line again, Owens."

Silence. Only the hum of the fluorescent light.

—"You're suspended from the fight ring. Two weeks. No exceptions."

Tess just nodded slowly, as if she didn't care. But inside, a part of her was burning. Not with anger. With fear. Fear of herself.

Later, in the courtyard, Sandra approached. Not as usual, not with a smile. This time with a look that held many questions.

—"Do you want to talk about it?" Tess denied. —"Then I'll talk." Sandra sat down next to him. —"You know I support you. And that you did what you had to do. But… I saw your face. When you broke her arm. When you kicked her. It wasn't you, Tess. It was someone else."

Tess pressed her lips together. She swallowed. Her voice came out low and dry.

—"I'm tired of being afraid. Of losing. Of being broken and then smiled at." Sandra looked at her with something that wasn't pity. It was something more raw. —"I understand. I've been through that too. But if you let it turn you into the very thing you hate, then you haven't won. You've just changed places."

A sigh. A long one. The first breath of calm in days.

—"I don't want to be like Mastina…" —"And you're not. But you have to remind yourself of that every day. Because that anger… doesn't go away on its own."

Tess didn't respond. She just stared up at the gray sky, hoping that someday, something up there would change too.

There was no need to look at the unofficial rankings the inmates used to whisper about. In that world of mud, hatred, and violence, hierarchies were carved with bruises, scars, and fear. And after the last two fights, Tess's name was no longer just known. It was feared.

He had faced "The Queen" and survived. Then, he defeated Mastina... and not only that: he disarmed her, broke her, crushed her to the ground with the fury of someone who had nothing left to lose. Although his punishment was light, the aftermath of the act spread farther than any rumors.

Now, when I walked through the halls, voices lowered. Eyes shifted. Some with respect. Others with terror. A couple with uncomfortable admiration.

But Tess didn't walk tall or smile arrogantly. She didn't think of herself as the queen of anything.

She didn't bark orders. She didn't demand respect. She didn't need to.

While others at her new echelon imposed rules, demanded favors, or simply sauntered about with arrogance dripping with pure violence, Tess stood aside. She ate in silence, trained in silence. And when an inmate accidentally bumped into her in the hallway, she said nothing… and she didn't react.

That, more than any threat, was disturbing.

Sandra had told him once, in a whisper: —"Those who shout loudly are not feared as much as those who remain silent with history."

One day, a new inmate, who didn't know her, pushed her to cut in line in the cafeteria. The others held their breath. They expected an immediate beating. A roar. Something.

Tess just looked at her.

A blank stare. Not violent. Just absent.

The girl stepped back without being told anything, swallowing hard, as if she had just stared into the abyss. She didn't come closer.

Not because Tess did anything.

But because he didn't.

Because the monster that doesn't need to move is the one that generates the most fear.

Two weeks had passed since the ban. Two weeks in which Tess didn't participate in any fights, nor did she speak more than necessary. The routine returned, but something wasn't right. As if the silence itself was preparing her for something.

It was in the courtyard, one cloudy morning, that the rumor spread again. At first as a hallway joke, then as a certainty shared in whispers:

—“Erica asked for a fight.”

The muscles of several inmates tensed at the mere mention of that name. Erica, the fallen queen. The woman who ruled the circle for nearly a year without defeat. The same woman who, with a simple glance, made others voluntarily withdraw. That same woman… had asked to return.

And not just anyone. Tess.

The last one who had the courage—or the madness—to stand up against her.

Tess found out when a guard handed her a notice on an informal, handwritten note:

“In two weeks, you challenge or you are challenged. You decide.”

The note wasn't signed. It didn't need to be. Tess held it for a moment, feeling something old—a pressure in her chest, a spark—ignite again.

Sandra was the first to ask him:

—"So? What are you going to do?"

Tess didn't respond. She just looked toward the center of the courtyard, where some inmates were exercising. Her eyes found a familiar silhouette. Erica, facing away, doing push-ups. Her back was broad and firm, with that snake tattoo running down her spine.

She didn't seem worried. Or anxious. Just… waiting.

As if it had all been part of her strategy all along. As if, for her, Tess had been merely a momentary interruption. A noise in her reign.

Sandra spoke again:

—“No one is going to judge you if you say no. You’ve already proven what you’re capable of.”

Tess looked down, clutching the paper between her fingers.

—“Not enough yet.”

Because deep down, she knew it. That fight wasn't just for the others. It was for herself. And knowing that Erica was always unbeatable

That day didn't start with fists. It started with a phone call.

Midmorning, an orderly came to get her. Tess followed her through the halls without speaking, puzzled. It wasn't common for her to be called into the offices. The last time had been to sign her sentence.

When she entered, two men and a woman in suits were waiting for her behind a desk. One of them looked up and said, almost emotionlessly:

—“Your case was reopened.”

Tess stood still.

—“We detected serious flaws in the evidence analysis. New cameras, testimony... everything points to someone tampering with the crime scene. And your friend's name... has appeared again.”

His mouth went dry. He listened as if from afar.

—“There’s a chance you’ll be released in the next few days, if the new evidence is confirmed. It’s not official yet, but… we wanted you to know before you see it on TV.”

Tess didn't respond. She just nodded slowly.

It was the news he'd been waiting for three years. But he didn't smile. He didn't cry. He just felt the whole world shake.

Hours later, the circle filled with murmurs. It was the most anticipated fight in months. Erica was back. Tess had accepted. Everyone knew it. But no one knew that one of them might be about to leave that hell.

Tess walked toward the center, her torso bandaged, her scars still fresh, and her head nearly shaved. The overhead light outlined her silhouette, thin but firm. Her eyes were fixed on her rival.

Erica was already there, arms crossed, showing no emotion. Her body was still a walking threat: tattoos, defined muscles, an unreadable gaze.

"So they're reviewing your case again," Erica murmured, as if reading his mind. "I didn't know I was fighting a media star."

Tess didn't answer.

—“If you go out, you’re going to take this defeat with me outside. Are you ready for that?”

The inmates surrounded the circle. No one was breathing. Sandra, among them, had her fingers crossed. An echo of tension filled the air.

The gong was still ringing when Tess moved forward. So did Erica. Neither hesitated. Neither retreated. The circle closed with muffled screams and held breaths.

The first clash was brutal. Erica threw a straight punch to the face, but Tess ducked, twisted her torso, and countered with a hook to the abdomen. Tess took a half step back. Just half a step.

—“You learned,” Erica growled.

Tess didn't answer.

Second strike. Erica went for a high-low combination, but Tess had learned to read her shoulders. She intercepted with an elbow and slipped under the second blow, planting her forehead on the bridge of Erica's nose. A clean headbutt. Erica staggered.

But then he smiled. With his nose bleeding, he smiled.

—“I like it that way.”

The answer was a knee to the chest. Tess fell backward, the air escaping from her lungs. Erica jumped on her with the strength of a beast, but Tess rolled to the side, scrambled to her feet, and slammed her heel into Tess's thigh. Erica grunted again, feeling the cramp shoot up her hip.

There were no pauses for the next few minutes.

They were two towers collapsing on top of each other. Hooks, elbows, kicks, locks, knees. Erica pushed her against the wall of the circle and crushed her forearm against her throat. Tess could barely breathe. But she used her knee to destabilize her and freed herself. She responded with a right that spun Erica's head around. Another. Another.

The blood was already staining the floor.

The inmates screamed, but their voices were distant. In that moment, only the two of them existed. The queen and the shadow that had risen from the depths.

Both were bleeding. Both were gasping. Neither took a step back.

Until Erica raised her fist like a hammer and brought it down… only for Tess to catch it in her hands, her arms shaking with the effort.

“NOT THIS TIME!” Tess roared, her jaw clenched.

And with a twist, he threw her to the ground with a dull thud.

Erica rose from the canvas, her jaw hanging loose. Literally. Dislocated. Tess's previous blow had deflected it like rubber. And yet, she was smiling. She was coughing blood, yes, but she was smiling.

Tess could barely hold up her arms. One, her right, hung broken at an impossible angle. Her forearm was swollen, deformed, and bruised. All she had left was her left arm, and her head. Mostly, her head.

And then, without warning, they launched themselves at each other… Header. Other. Header. Crack. Header. Cracks in the forehead. Header. Tess fell to her knees, but pushed herself up with what was left of her strength… Header. Erica recoiled, spitting out a tooth.

Adrenaline kept them on their feet. The inmates weren't screaming anymore. No one was. The entire circle was frozen in a mixture of terror, respect, and repulsion.

Erica, wobbly, grabbed Tess's ankle. And like a doll, she slammed her against the metal edge of the fence. Once. Twice. Three times. As if trying to erase her from the physical plane.

Tess's body bounced like a wet rag. Broken ribs. Lacerated back. But, between gagging and blood, she laughed.

—“Is that all, queen?” he spat with his mouth full of red.

And then, she used her free leg to kick him in the face.

Erica fell on her back.

Tess crawled like a wounded animal, trembling, her broken arm dangling lifelessly. She climbed on top of Erica and began punching her with her left elbow. A. Other. Other. Erica's skull began to crunch.

He didn't stop.

—“Tess!” Sandra shouted from outside. “That’s it, Tess! THAT’S IT!”

But Tess didn't hear.

Bang.

Bang.

BANG.

Erica's face was a shapeless mass.

Until four inmates entered the circle and grabbed her by the shoulders. They forcibly separated her. Tess screamed like a wild animal, her eyes bloodshot, her face distorted by anger and pain.

When she finally fell to the ground, exhausted, she whispered something under her breath:

—“Never again... touch me... never again…”

Erica didn't die. But no one ever saw in her the queen she once was.

And Tess, without a crown or a speech, stood alone in the center, bleeding, gasping… but standing.

Tess walked slowly. Her arm hung in a splint, her face swollen, her body covered in bruises that ached with every step. She didn't want to talk to anyone. She just wanted to sleep for days.

But when he walked into his assigned office, he didn't expect to see her there.

Melina.

Sitting on a plastic chair, her fingers interlaced, her gaze fixed on the floor as if she knew hell had just opened.

Tess stopped. Her breathing quickened. The door closed behind her, leaving only the two of them in that sterile room.

"What are you... doing here?" Tess spat out, her voice raspy and restrained.

Melina stood up slowly, trembling.

—"I came to talk. To tell you the truth. They called me from the court. They want to reopen the case."

"And now you decided to have a conscience?"

"It wasn't like that. You don't know what"

Tess crossed the room in two steps and pushed her against the wall. The loud crash echoed in the room. Melina let out a low, unresisting cry.

"DON'T YOU DARE TALK TO ME LIKE YOU'RE A VICTIM!"

Melina tried to hold her gaze, but she couldn't. She was crying. Tess raised her fist with her left hand, the only hand she could use. The impulse was there. The trembling. The rage. Three years. Three. Years. Because of him.

"Do you know how many times I thought about finding you outside? Do you know how many times I saw you in my dreams saying something and I... smashed your face in?"

Melina closed her eyes. She said nothing.

Tess lowered her arm, trembling. Not out of compassion. Out of exhaustion. She pulled away with a grunt.

"Tell them what you know. Everything. Not for me. For you. So that someday you can look in the mirror without feeling like shit."

Melina sobbed, hunched over.

"Sorry… Tess, sorry…"

"Keep your forgiveness to yourself. Late, cowardly, and empty."

Tess left without looking back. The door slammed shut.

Outside, the hallway remained the same. Cameras. Guards. High walls. But something had broken, and something else was just beginning to move.

Perhaps, a crack in the sentence.

Perhaps, a way out.

Nobody expected it to be so fast.

A few weeks after the last fight, the court notified the prison: Tess Miranda's case was reopened. And not only that—inconsistent evidence, missing cameras, and recovered messages showed that Melina knew more than she let on. Much more.

Conflicting testimony, family pressure, and finally, a confession: that night, Melina altered the scene to avoid being implicated. She gave the police a version of events that left Tess alone, with a gun she hadn't taken, next to a body she hadn't hurt.

Melina was summoned, tried... and sentenced. Ironies of life.

Tess, on the other hand, received a piece of paper. A signature. A serial number. And suddenly, after three years of confinement, the door opened.

There was no speech. There was no ceremony. Just the creaking of the gate, the sun filtering through the bars, and the sound of their footsteps outside the prison.

He had promised not to cry. He had repeated it to himself in his cell, in front of the mirror, before leaving. But seeing them there, leaning against his father's old car, his heart sank.

Her mother was the first to run. She said nothing. She just held her tightly, trembling. The woman's graying hair sank into Tess's shoulder, and there, finally, the armor that had kept her alive cracked.

They both cried. Noisily. Angrily. With relief.

Her sister got out of the passenger seat. He looked at her as if she were a ghost. But he came closer. He grabbed her hand. He squeezed it. Her father didn't say a word. He just put his arm around her shoulders as she climbed into the back seat, as if time had never passed.

The walk home was slow. Quiet. No one asked him anything. No one mentioned the prison. Just the sound of the old radio, the smell of the family car, and the crunch of the tires on the asphalt.

I was free.

But what he had experienced would not go away so easily.

And what was to come… had no name yet.

Sleeping with the door open.

Listening to a movie without fear of someone screaming out loud.

See the sky without barbed wire crossing it.

Things that had once been invisible now seemed untrue. Tess spent her days oscillating between silent gratitude and a constant feeling of disconnection. People talked, laughed, hugged in plazas and bars... and she felt like it was all part of a movie. One where she didn't know the script.

The first few reunions were tense. Some friends looked at her with uneasy eyes, as if unsure whether to treat her as a survivor or a legend. Others simply avoided her. Only a few—the real ones—embraced her as if time hadn't rusted them between bars. But even with them, the conversation didn't flow. Tess felt like they were speaking different languages.

How do you explain what it's like to hear someone begging for their life from the cell next door?

He struggled to answer messages. He struggled to laugh without thinking about the tension in a prison cell. He struggled to trust.

Sometimes, when the sun set and the world seemed too soft, he would put on a jacket and walk to the bus station. He would take one to the outskirts, where the prison loomed in the distance, and go in to visit her.

Sandra.

He was still there, serving his sentence. But every conversation with her was a grounding wire. They spoke little, but in those few words, there was truth. Sandra asked him if he'd ever eaten ice cream in freedom. If he'd ever screamed without anyone stopping him. If he'd ever felt the wind without fear.

Tess smiled. Sometimes she said yes. Sometimes she didn't.

Readjusting wasn't an easy journey. She was free, yes, but her interior was still barred. And outside, amidst the laughter of others and the bright windows, she still wondered if she would ever learn to be... human again.

Tess didn't know if she was irritated or reassured by how much her lifelong friend remained the same.

Tomás was everything she wasn't now: open, talkative, a whirlwind of words and jokes who made even the most boring coffee in the world taste special. He had invited her to a small get-together with some old acquaintances, on a warm terrace with dim lights and light beer. She accepted... although she didn't know why.

Maybe he just wanted to test whether he could still speak without feeling like every word was a misfired gun.

For most of the evening, Tess remained somewhat absent. She laughed at odd moments, responded in monosyllables, and looked at her glass more than she looked at the people. Still, Tomas didn't give up.

—“I know it’s a bummer, T. I know. But I swear it was nice having you back here. Everyone loves you. You’re just… rusty.”

Tess raised an eyebrow. Tomas smiled.

—“I mean... have you thought about going on a date? Even just to talk. Not one of those app-based crap, I mean... something put together with love. With cool people.”

She remained silent, her gaze fixed on the hanging lights.

—“You don't have to fall in love with anyone. Or get married. Or do anything you don't want to do. But... you can't stay in 'prison mode' forever.”

—“I don’t know if I can talk to someone without spitting out my criminal record in the first five minutes,” Tess muttered.

—“Then let him listen. Let him not run. And if he does, well, next. But what happens if you don't run, huh?”

She sighed. There was no clear answer. Only a tired echo of uncertainty.

Tomás smiled with a hint of tenderness.

—“Give me a chance. Just one. I have someone in mind. He’s not an idiot. I swear.”

Tess didn't say yes. But she didn't say no either.

And in his world, that was already a big step.