This one’s for the silence. For the shame I didn’t own. For the echoes in the cell, the jokes that held my soul together, and the songs that cracked the concrete. I walked out with a bag that said HMP—but what I really carried was memory, pain, fire, and love. This final chapter isn’t a celebration. It’s a reckoning. A goodbye to the ledger, to the labels, to the version of me they tried to pin down. It’s the last step—and every step still rings. MX5942 ends here, but I don’t.