Jolene sat slumped in the back of the patrol car, her pulse pounding in her ears. Every jolt in the road sent a flare of pain through her battered body. Blood dried against her skin, sticky and stiff, like a second skin. Her head rested against the cold glass, but the hum of the engine did little to soothe the storm inside her mind.
Takeshi was gone. And now, they thought she killed him.
She clenched her jaw, biting down the rising fury and grief threatening to swallow her whole. Her wrists burned beneath the cuffs, and the police radio buzzed with garbled reports she couldn't understand. The officers in the front murmured quietly to one another, their casual conversation a cruel contrast to the chaos inside her head.
"You think she'll talk?" the driver asked his partner, glancing in the rearview mirror at Jolene's reflection.
The other officer shrugged. "They always do eventually. If not now, they'll break her down at booking. Pretty thing like her? She won't last long."
Jolene's stomach twisted at the insinuation. "I didn't kill him," she muttered, her voice hoarse.
The officer riding shotgun snorted without turning around. "Save it for the interrogation room, sweetheart."
The car rumbled to a halt in front of Zenith City's central precinct, the building looming gray and lifeless under the dim streetlights. One officer got out, yanking open the door on her side.
"Come on, Kujo. Welcome to your new home."
Jolene winced as the officer hauled her out of the car, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her. She swallowed the pain, forcing herself upright. Every step toward the station felt like wading through quicksand, heavy and slow, but she refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
Inside, the precinct buzzed with noise—officers on phones, clattering keyboards, the occasional laugh from exhausted patrolmen. No one paid her much attention as she was marched through the building, past rows of desks and flickering fluorescent lights. They all had the same look in their eyes: tired indifference. Another day, another criminal.
The officer holding her arm tightened his grip. "Strip search first. Let's get this over with."
Jolene's breath hitched. "What?"
"You heard me. Standard intake procedure. Hands behind your head."
He led her to a cold, sterile room at the back of the station. A female officer waited there, her expression blank as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a snap.
"Clothes off," the female officer ordered flatly.
Jolene's jaw clenched. She could feel her dignity slipping away, shredded like paper, piece by piece. "This is bullshit."
The officer raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp and unsympathetic. "It's protocol. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
Jolene's hands shook slightly as she reached for the hem of her bloodstained shirt. The cold air stung her skin as she peeled it off, and she heard the rustling of the officer's gloves as she made notes on a clipboard.
"Hurry up," the male officer muttered from the door, arms crossed.
Jolene shot him a glare. "Enjoying the view?"
He didn't respond, just smirked slightly and looked away, his indifference worse than any taunt.
She kicked off her shoes and peeled off her pants, trying to suppress the shame burning in her chest. Finally, she stood in nothing but her underwear, her arms folded across her chest, refusing to meet the female officer's gaze.
"Everything," the female officer said, her voice cool and detached.
Jolene felt bile rise in her throat. "You can't be serious."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
With trembling hands, Jolene removed the last of her clothing, standing exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights. The female officer gave her a quick, impersonal glance before running her gloved hands over Jolene's arms, torso, and legs in a clinical search for weapons or contraband.
Jolene's skin crawled beneath the touch, every second dragging out like an eternity.
"Clear," the officer announced finally, her voice devoid of emotion.
Jolene's clothes were tossed into a plastic bag, sealed and marked with her name. The female officer handed her a plain set of gray prison scrubs.
"Put these on," she said without looking at her.
Jolene grabbed the clothes, her fingers numb, and dressed as quickly as her aching body would allow. The fabric was stiff and scratchy against her skin, the waistband too tight.
Once she was dressed, the male officer unlocked the door with a click. "This way, Kujo. Let's get you processed."
Jolene's pulse thundered in her ears as she followed him down the corridor, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. The injustice of it all—the humiliation, the loss, the helplessness—made her want to scream. But she swallowed it down, forcing herself to remain calm.
This wasn't over. Not yet.
She couldn't let it be.