The cold fluorescent lights of the police station buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the sterile walls. Jolene sat on the metal bench inside the cramped interrogation room, wrists still cuffed in front of her. Her lip was split, her face smeared with dried blood from the earlier battle with Kazane, but none of the officers had given her so much as a tissue. Every joint ached; her spirit threads—her lifeline in every fight—were severed and out of reach, leaving her defenseless.
The door swung open with a metallic creak, and two detectives strode inside. One was a lean man in his forties with a tired scowl, while the other—a shorter, stocky woman—watched Jolene with a hawk's gaze, suspicion radiating from her like heat off asphalt.
The man tossed a file onto the metal table with a thud. "Jolene Kujo," he said, sliding into the chair across from her. "We have a lot to talk about."
Jolene leaned back on the bench, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at her bruised ribs. "Yeah? I've had better conversations," she muttered, rubbing her wrist against the edge of the cuff. "Is this the part where you tell me my rights or the part where you pin a crime on me?"
The female detective crossed her arms and took a step closer. "Smart mouth. That's going to help you, I'm sure."
Jolene gave her a weary smirk, despite the blood crusted at the corner of her mouth. "Hey, I like to make things interesting."
The man tapped the edge of the folder. "Interesting is one word for it. But here's the problem—you were found standing over Takeshi Nakamura's body, with blood on your hands. That makes you our prime suspect."
Jolene's expression darkened at the mention of Takeshi's name. Her heart tightened, but she forced herself to hold the detective's gaze. "You think I killed him?" she said, voice low, barely above a whisper.
"We don't think, Kujo," the female detective interjected. "We know. You were the only one there. No witnesses. No other suspects. Just you and a corpse."
Jolene bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, tasting the metallic tang on her tongue. She could still feel Kazane's laughter echoing in her mind—Kazane standing over Takeshi's lifeless body, her hands drenched in blood. The guilt weighed down on her chest like a boulder, but she didn't have the luxury of breaking down. Not here. Not now.
"I didn't kill him," Jolene whispered, her voice hoarse. "She did."
The male detective leaned forward. "She? Who's she?"
Jolene narrowed her eyes, her body trembling with barely restrained fury. "Kazane. The one responsible for all of this. But you're too busy playing bad cop to even care."
The female detective snorted. "Kazane? The woman who supposedly vanished without a trace months ago? You expect us to believe that?"
Jolene's hands clenched into fists, the cuffs biting into her skin. "I don't care what you believe. I know what happened."
The male detective studied her carefully, his sharp eyes tracking the anger flickering across her bruised face. "Let's pretend for a second that what you're saying is true. If Kazane was there, where is she now?"
Jolene exhaled slowly, running her tongue over her cracked lip. "If I knew that," she muttered, "I wouldn't be here."
The detectives exchanged a glance, the tension thickening in the room. Finally, the male detective stood up, smoothing his hands over his tie. "We'll be back, Kujo. Maybe after a night in the holding cell, you'll be more willing to talk."
As they turned to leave, Jolene leaned forward. "You're making a mistake. You have no idea what's coming."
The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Jolene alone with the crushing silence of the room. Her mind raced—she needed to get out, needed to find Kazane before it was too late. Takeshi's face haunted her every thought, his lifeless eyes burned into her memory.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time was difficult to measure when your body ached in ways you didn't think were possible. Jolene's head sagged, exhaustion threatening to drag her into unconsciousness. She let herself drift briefly—just a moment of rest, she told herself. Just a moment.
That moment shattered when the door swung open again. This time, two officers stepped inside, neither bothering to look her in the eye.
"Get up," one barked, yanking her to her feet by the arm. Jolene gritted her teeth but didn't resist. She knew how this worked. Resisting would only make things worse.
They led her down the dim corridor toward processing. Jolene walked with her head high, refusing to let them see any weakness, even though every step sent sharp jolts of pain through her body. She could feel the bruises blooming under her skin, her ribs grinding together with every breath.
The officers shoved her into the changing room with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "Clothes off," one of them ordered flatly.
Jolene sneered. "How about a little dinner first? Or is foreplay dead in this town?"
The officer didn't respond, just crossed his arms and waited. Jolene held his stare for a moment longer, then shrugged with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Don't say I didn't offer."
She pulled off her jacket and tossed it at the officer's feet. Her shirt followed, revealing the angry welts and bruises crisscrossing her torso. The officers didn't comment, but she could feel their eyes lingering, cold and clinical.
"Everything," the second officer said. "Shoes, too."
Jolene kicked off her boots, the heavy thud echoing in the room. Piece by piece, she stripped away the battered remnants of her clothes, until she stood in nothing but her defiance.
They handed her a thin, standard-issue prison uniform, the rough fabric scratching against her skin. She pulled it on with as much dignity as she could muster, her fists tightening to stop the shaking in her hands.
"Good," the officer said, nodding toward the door. "Let's go."
They marched her back through the station, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Every step felt like a walk toward a noose. Jolene knew the system well enough—she'd been in and out of trouble for years—but this was different. They thought she killed Takeshi. They thought she was a murderer.
And worst of all? She couldn't prove she wasn't. Not without exposing Kazane. Not without dragging them deeper into the nightmare that had swallowed her whole.
The officers led her to a barred holding cell, throwing the door open with a clang. "Home sweet home," one of them muttered, shoving her inside.
Jolene staggered forward, catching herself on the wall. The cell reeked of sweat and desperation, the narrow cot offering little comfort. She slumped down onto it, her body finally giving in to the exhaustion that clawed at her.
But sleep didn't come easily. Her mind wouldn't stop racing—Takeshi's last moments, Kazane's twisted grin, the feel of blood slick beneath her fingers. And beneath it all, the gnawing certainty that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Somewhere, beyond the cold steel bars and the suffocating walls, Kazane was still out there. Waiting. Planning. And Jolene knew—deep in her bones—that the next time they met, there would be no mercy.
Jolene lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling. The pain in her body was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. Takeshi was gone, and she was the one paying the price.
She curled her fists, knuckles white, nails digging into her palms. She didn't care what it took. She didn't care how deep she had to dig or how dark things got. Kazane had won the first round.
But Jolene Kujo wasn't done fighting yet.
She closed her eyes, breathing through the pain, her mind sharpening like a blade. Let the cops believe what they wanted. Let the world think she was guilty.
When she got out of this cage—and she would get out—she'd find Kazane. And this time, she wouldn't stop until she put her six feet under.
Whatever it took.