001

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Lala

"What is your name?" The man sitting in front of me asks, but my eyes trail from his sharp blue eyes to his manly fingers ticking on the file he's holding.

Right, my records.

"Your name?" he asks again, this time looking up at me.

My lips widen into a smile as I lean closer to him. "Huh? Which one do you have there?" I respond with a slur. He glares at me immediately. "Oh please, don’t give me that look, I go by many names." I shrug my shoulders, my hands bound together with chains that are also connected to my legs as I sit on the chair.

"Fuck, these feel numb... Jeez, it’s only been twenty-four hours since I was caught. Can never get used to this damn thing." I mumble as I try to adjust myself to a position that’s more comfortable, ignoring the piercing look he’s giving me.

"Lala Robinson," he says, and the name sounds like a sweet melody in my ears.

“Damn! You make it worth being caught again, Gamma Kael… it’s been a decade since I was called by my real name… you know, I’m either the Blood Widow, the Witch of Oakwood Pack—”

He cuts me off with a glare that says *shut the fuck up.*

The room is too quiet after that. There’s only the soft hum of the ceiling light and the click of his pen as he flips through my file. He’s not even giving me the satisfaction of a reaction, just sitting there, all rigid shoulders and that calm, cold aura that screams authority. He looks like the kind of man who hasn’t smiled in years. The kind of man women look at and is a well coloured red flag, and still want anyway.

Yeah, I sure as hell will be colour blind too.

I sit back, letting the chains rattle against the floor, and watch him. His jaw flexes a little as he reads, like every line on that page makes his blood pressure climb.

"You cut off a prison guard’s dick and left him to bleed the last time you were dragged back from your escape, correct?" he asks flatly, not even looking up. His voice is deep, low, like he’s used to people obeying before he finishes a sentence.

I tilt my head and grin. “Oh, that. That was five years ago. The asshole tried to rape a female inmate. I did nothing wrong.”

“Oh but it was such a pitiful size…I apologized though…to the young girl.”

He finally lifts his eyes, they don't move but I can tell he’s measuring me, waiting for me to slip, maybe to show guilt or shame. He won’t find any.

“You stabbed a fellow inmate to death with a fork, correct?”

I roll my eyes and sigh loud enough to make him pause. “Why ask me when you have the file right there? Can we get this over with and move on?”

He doesn’t like that. I can tell by the way his hand freezes, the pen pressing too long against the paper. Then his eyes rise again, darker this time.

“Answer me.” His tone drops lower, commanding.

The sound of it sends a weird chill through me, and I flinch before I can stop myself. My heart skips, not out of fear, but—something annoyingly human that I refuse to acknowledge.

I swallow and quickly mask it with a smirk. “Well,” I drag out, my voice light again, “who puts a beautiful girl like me in a prison with male prisoners? It wasn’t fair. I mean, look at me, your honor, I’m just a girl.”

His brow arches slightly. For a second, I think I see something flicker across his face, maybe amusement, maybe disbelief. But it’s gone as soon as it came. He leans back in his chair, flipping another page.

“These records show too many terrible things,” he says in a calm and detached tone. “Three escape attempts. Multiple murders. The massacre of two hundred pack members… Is that something *just a girl* can do?”

I press my tongue against my cheek and give him a slow once-over. He’s too composed, too careful. I can tell he’s testing me, but hell…I hate cocky dudes. “But look at me,” I say, feigning innocence, widening my eyes. “I look like I’d break if you squeeze me with one hand. Do I look like I can do all that?”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he doesn’t answer right away. I can see the muscle in his jaw move again. He’s trying to figure me out, probably deciding which version of me fits the monster in the reports. He can stare all he wants. I’m used to it.

Finally, he says, “Are you saying you’re innocent and not responsible for the massacre?”

For a moment, I just stare at him. The air between us thickens. His question shouldn’t mean anything — I’ve been accused, hunted, locked up, branded a monster. But no one ever asked.

Not once.

In ten years.

Not a single person cared whether I was guilty or not. They just wanted a name, a face to blame, I was dragged and declared guilty without even a trial.

But, I didn't feel bad for whatever happened, I watched them smash my child against the wall with no mercy, my husband was cruelly burned to death with silver for failing to hand me over to Alpha Goldenrod of Camwood Pack, he wanted me as his breeder and I refused. They all caused me terrible pains. Why then should I care about all of them going to hell?

“Wow,” I breathe, letting out a small laugh, though it sounds hollow to my own ears. “Are you really that interested?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps that same calm face, like nothing in the world could shake him. His eyes stay on mine, steady, unblinking. I lean forward slowly, the chains pulling tight, the metal biting into my skin. “If I tell you, will you believe me?”

For the first time, I see something shift in his expression. It’s small, a twitch of confusion or maybe curiosity. Then it’s gone again.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says finally, voice dropping flat like a stone along with my heart. “Whether you have a different story from what’s recorded or not, the council already proclaimed you are guilty.”