Prison Warden Anette

The heavy steel doors of the solitary wing groan as they are pried open. Anette stands in the center of the room, her hair disheveled and her blouse torn, but her chin remains defiantly high. She clutches her riding crop so hard her knuckles are white, even as the sound of the riot echoes through the vents. "You're making a mistake," she spits, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts at a cold glare. "The National Guard will be here within the hour. If you touch me, I will personally see to it that you never see the sun again."