"Carrie," she whispered to herself, testing the weight of it. Still perfect.
She walked the perimeter of the high-limit room, her boots soft on the carpet. Transition hadn't been a single explosion but a slow burn—hormones first, then the voice training in her truck during lunch breaks, then the day she filed the name change and cried in the courthouse parking lot because a judge's signature felt more real than her own reflection ever had.
"Done."
She pushed off the rail, straightened her blazer, and headed toward the break room. The coffee was hot. The night was long. And Carrie Emberlyn was exactly who she was supposed to be.
"Good. Take five."
The night supervisor, a gruff woman named Delia who'd never once misgendered her, laughed. "Coffee's fresh. You did the west stairwell log?"
The Third Shift
"Always," she replied.