Emma is not considered unknown anymore. Word traveled fast. By the end of the week, everyone knew: the two tattooed women who tried to corner Emma still walked with a limp.
And in Block D, there was one name you didn't want to cross — Valeria Kross.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Covered in black-and-red ink like a walking mural of violence. She'd been in for twelve years already, and the guards didn't even pretend to "control" her anymore. She controlled herself… and everyone else.
That night, after lights out, Emma was leaning against her bunk, quietly reading the smudged pages of a tattered novel she'd found in the prison library.
The cell door buzzed — unusual after lockdown.
It slid open.
Valeria stepped in.
The air in the cell seemed to shrink.
She didn't say hello.
Didn't ask questions.
She just stared at Emma with slow, deliberate amusement — like a cat looking at a new bird in its territory.
Valeria: "You hurt my girls."
Emma looked up from her book. Her voice was even.
Emma: "They weren't yours when they touched me."
Valeria's smile widened — not in humor, but in the kind of grin a shark gives before biting.
She stepped forward.
Emma didn't move.
The silence was a standoff — two predators deciding if this was a fight, or something worse.
Finally, Valeria leaned close enough for Emma to feel her breath.
Valeria: "You're either stupid… or you're dangerous."
Emma shut the book and stood, eyes never leaving Valeria's.
Emma: "…Dangerous."
Valeria chuckled low, turned, and walked out without another word.
But as she passed the bars, she said over her shoulder:
Valeria: "Tomorrow. Yard. Don't be late."
The cell door closed.
Emma sat back down.
Her fingers, calm and steady, reopened the book.
But she didn't read a single word.
The next day, the yard was buzzing long before Emma even stepped outside.
Word had spread — Valeria Kross had "invited" the Phantom of Hell to meet her.
Every group in the prison had taken sides.
Some whispered that Emma wouldn't survive.
Others whispered that maybe Valeria wouldn't.
The guards didn't interfere. They leaned on the fences, betting in cigarettes and chocolate bars.
Emma walked out in her prison-issued gray sweatshirt, hood down, eyes calm.
Her hair caught in the morning wind.
Valeria was already waiting.
Tank top. Tattoos stretched over muscle. Arms folded like a queen on her throne.
When Emma crossed the yard, the crowd split like water.
Valeria: "You showed."
Emma: "You asked."
A ripple of amusement passed through the onlookers.
Valeria stepped forward until she was a single pace away.
Valeria: "Out here, there's no guards to save you. Only me. And you."
Emma's gaze didn't waver.
Emma: "Then you'll need more than that."
The crowd ooohed.
Without warning, Valeria threw the first punch — fast, heavy.
Emma ducked, countered with a palm strike to the ribs.
Valeria grunted, grinning through the pain.
They traded blows, each testing the other's speed, strength, rhythm.
It wasn't a brawl — it was a duel between two apex predators.
Gasps erupted when Emma swept Valeria's leg, sending her to one knee.
But Valeria caught herself, surged forward, and slammed Emma against the chain-link fence.
Both were breathing hard now.
Valeria leaned close, gripping Emma's shirt.
Valeria: "You're wasted on prey."
Emma shoved her back.
Emma: "So are you."
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Valeria… laughed. Loud, deep, and real.
She raised Emma's hand in the air like a champion's.
The crowd erupted in cheers, jeers, and disbelief.
From that day, Valeria never called Emma an enemy again.
She called her something else.
Equal.