Chapter 1
Green Dolphin Street Prison was seldom this buzzing with excitement over a new arrival. New inmates came and went, some fading into the prison hierarchy without so much as a whisper, while others fought their way into infamy. But today, there was an undeniable electricity in the air.
Jolyne Cujoh, seated at a table in the common area, paid it little attention. The chatter, the sideways glances, the hushed voices—it was none of her business. She had bigger things to deal with. Her father's stolen DISC. Whitesnake. Surviving.
Whatever poor bastard had landed in Green Dolphin today would have to sort themselves out.
But still.
It was hard to ignore the way the murmurs didn't die down.
She heard whispers as she walked past.
"Did you hear? I heard she got caught embezzling funds—from the Speedwagon Foundation, no less."
"That's nonsense! I heard she got caught sleeping her way to the top."
Jolyne rolled her eyes. Prison gossip was the worst kind of gossip—wildly inaccurate and way too eager to spin a legend out of nothing.
Still, Speedwagon Foundation? That was an unusual name to hear in a place like this.
What the hell kind of person gets caught stealing from those guys?
Curiosity gnawed at her despite herself.
Finally giving in, she made her way toward the entranceway, where a group of inmates had already gathered, jostling for a good view of the new arrival.
The stairwell creaked under the weight of steel-toed combat boots.
Isabella E.O. Speedwagon climbed the steps slowly, deliberately, her expression stone-cold neutral despite the growing noise of her fellow inmates.
She didn't need to look to know they were watching.
The whispers, the speculative glances, the tension that came with being someone new—someone dangerous.
She had felt it before, in other places, under different circumstances.
And she had survived.
Her hand drifted to her belt buckle, the polished steel glinting in the dull prison lighting—the Speedwagon insignia engraved into it like a ghost of her past.
Jotaro Kujo's orders echoed in her mind.
"Remember, you're there to keep an eye on Jolyne. Not to get into unnecessary fights if it can be avoided."
Isabella sighed quietly through her nose. Right. Stay focused.
"Got it, Cujoh. Don't get attached, right?"
She tugged at the sleeves of her modified inmate uniform, rolling them up to her elbows, revealing toned arms littered with faint scars from past battles.
She was ready.
And then, she saw her.
At the top of the stairwell, their eyes locked.
For the briefest moment, the world seemed to narrow—a silent, invisible force passing between them like a lightning strike.
Green met blue.
Jolyne, arms crossed, chin tilted ever so slightly in an unspoken challenge.
Isabella, standing tall, unwavering, measuring her in return.
It lasted only a second. But Jolyne felt it.
A flicker of recognition—not of a face, but of something else. A feeling she couldn't place. Familiar, yet foreign.
What the hell was that?
Isabella, for her part, had expected Jolyne to stand out.
She hadn't expected her to be so... striking.
Not conventionally pretty—sharper, rougher, with eyes that had already seen too much.
And yet, impossible to ignore.
The kind of person you either fought alongside or against, but never in between.
Damn it, Jotaro. He hadn't warned her about this.
Isabella schooled her expression into something cool, unreadable, and broke the gaze first, moving past Jolyne as if the moment had never happened.
But Jolyne noticed how her fingers twitched at her sides, just once.
And somehow, she knew Isabella had felt it, too.
The murmurs around them grew louder as Isabella fully entered the prison population.
Someone muttered something about her "fancy belt buckle." Someone else dared to snicker about her being "rich girl trash."
Jolyne watched from a distance, half-expecting Isabella to snap.
Instead, the woman just smirked.
It wasn't a friendly smirk.
It was the kind of smirk that said, I could break you if I wanted to. I just don't care enough to bother.
Jolyne arched an eyebrow.
Interesting.
She didn't have much time to think about it before one of the inmates—a burly woman with too many tattoos and not enough self-preservation—stepped forward, grinning like she smelled fresh blood.
"Well, well. Look at what we have here. Another spoiled little girl playing tough?"
Jolyne sighed. Here we go.
Isabella stopped walking.
Turned her head, ever so slightly.
Jolyne knew that body language. It was the kind people had right before a fight.
"Not in the mood," Isabella said flatly.
The woman laughed. "Oh? And what are you gonna do about it, princess?"
Jolyne braced herself.
And then—
In one fluid motion, Isabella shifted her weight, pivoted, and slammed her fist into the woman's stomach.
The hit was fast. Precise. Not enough to seriously injure—just enough to make the point very, very clear.
The woman staggered, gasping.
The surrounding inmates fell silent.
Isabella rolled her shoulders, her smirk widening just a little.
"Like I said," she murmured, tone utterly casual. "Not in the mood."
She walked away without another glance.
Jolyne let out a low whistle. Shit.
Maybe she'd underestimated her.
Jolyne sat on her bunk, arms resting on her knees, staring at the ceiling.
Her mind should've been on her father, on Whitesnake, on the fight ahead.
Instead, she kept thinking about green eyes.
About the weight of that first glance.
She clicked her tongue, annoyed at herself. Who the hell was Isabella E.O. Speedwagon, really?
And why did she get the feeling that this was just the beginning?