“Elena Cruz.”
The sound of my name stopped me instantly. It was the head warden’s voice—low, commanding, the kind of tone that made you straighten your spine before you even turned around.
I turned and saw him standing in the doorway of his office, one large hand gripping the frame. His sharp eyes were fixed on me, and there was something in his expression—something that told me whatever he was about to say, I probably wasn’t going to like it.
I stepped inside. The familiar smell hit me first—coffee gone lukewarm and the faint scent of old paper. His office always felt a little too warm, like the radiator never quite turned off, and the air seemed thick with the weight of decisions made in here.
The blinds behind his desk were half-closed, letting in thin slants of late afternoon sunli
