The smell hits first.
Not the fresh tortillas from the bakery or the sharp citrus of just-cut produce, but the acrid sting of industrial cleaner—mingled with something worse. Something that lingers, no matter how many times she mops.
Krystal Mary Bonilla Negron, 23, moves through the aisles unnoticed, until she’s needed. A spill. A bathroom left in disarray. An overflowing trash can. By the time the afternoon rush hits, she’s already deep into her shift anticipating the daily cycle of order and disorder.
She sees everything.
“What you’ll see is the face of tremendous dread,” she says, half-laughing. “People complaining that they need to use the restroom, and I smell like I haven’t showered in 10 days.”
The work is messy—but predictable. What isn’t predictable, and what she thinks about often, is why people behave the way they do.
“The toughest moments in my shift,” she says, shaking her head, “are dealing with people who want to practically live in the bathrooms with how long they stay in those stalls.”
No matter how much you clean something, disorder creeps back in. No matter how much structure you put in place, people find ways to disturb it.
By the following morning, she’ll be back in class at Texas A&M University–Central Texas, switching from the physical labor of cleaning to the theoretical dissection of crime, order, and human behavior.
Krystal didn’t always think she’d end up here—either here, in Copperas Cove, or here, at A&M–Central Texas, studying criminal justice. Her childhood is blurry in places, but the parts she remembers are warm. She was born on July 10, 2001, in Louisiana, the daughter of two high school sweethearts who defied odds and distance and teen-hood.
Her mother, she says, was the “if you want me, prove it” type. Her father did. Back then, he’d bike five miles just to see her, still in his work clothes. He later joined the military and made a career of it. Her mom gave up modeling and dropped out of college when she became pregnant, eventually becoming a stay-at-home mom.
Their household was steady. Shielded. They moved to Texas when Krystal was in second grade, and though she can’t recall much of the upheaval, she remembers the little rituals—movie nights, board games, being together.
“They did a great job shielding me from the harsh realities of our environment,” she said. “I think that’s why I want to do the same for others.”
That protective instinct took root early. So did her curiosity. She remembers watching her brother play video games and being drawn into the worlds they created. She remembers dolls and cartoons and fragments of a childhood that felt, if not simple, then at least whole.
School, too, gave her a sense of rhythm. In elementary, she cycled through different instruments in music class. Only one stuck: the clarinet. She joined the band in middle school and by high school, had climbed to the Wind Symphony—the highest-level band at Copperas Cove High. She ran track and cross country, lifted weights in powerlifting, pushed herself to keep up with the pressures of adolescence. But by senior year, something shifted.
Anxiety began to crowd her internal world, her playing faltered, and people noticed.
“That hurt,” she admits. “I wasn’t performing well. Maybe it was performance anxiety. I don’t know. But I started feeling like I couldn’t keep up.”
Still, she graduated. She enrolled in Central Texas College (CTC) immediately after. Like many students, she didn’t know what she wanted to study. Her mother suggested nursing. It felt like a safe path, one with clear expectations and job security. Krystal signed up for science-heavy courses, gave it a try, and hated every moment.
“I did terribly,” she says. “And it showed.”
Nonetheless, she eventually obtained her associates degree in Medical Office Technology with the same quiet determination she brings to everything. Then came the question: What now?
Transferring to A&M–Central Texas made the most sense—it was local, affordable, and welcoming. When an advisor suggested either business or criminal justice based on her credits and interests, she leaned into instinct.
“Funny enough, I didn’t even realize criminal justice was a degree,” she says.
Krystal once considered becoming a police officer. She admired the courage and responsibility the job demanded, but knew the emotional toll would be too much.
“I don’t think I could handle that mentally,” she says. “I’d rather deal with corpses than the high-pressure nature of policing.”
Still, she was drawn to the field. Crime scene breakdowns, bodycam footage, and investigative reports fascinated her. She would spend hours watching real cases unravel, analyzing how small details were pieced together to reconstruct truth.
She loved the clarity. The understanding. The closure.
So, when she saw ‘forensics’ listed as a career track within the criminal justice program at A&M–Central Texas, it clicked immediately.
“It just made sense,” she says. “I like putting pieces together. I like when things finally add up.” Forensics, to her, is about translating chaos into comprehension.
The more time she spends at A&M–Central Texas, the more confident she feels in that choice.
“This place is different,” she says. “Everyone here actually wants to help you. They’re kind, supportive, and reassuring.”
Despite being the type of person who struggles to ask for help, she’s found professors at the school who make it easier — ones like Chief Andrew Flores, one of her favorite instructors for one of her favorite courses, Advanced Investigation.
“He’s relatable,” she says. “He tells you how it really is. We go over case studies and then he brings in real-world stories that make everything easier to understand. You see both, the textbook and what happens beyond it.”
Now, she feels as if she’s found her true purpose in life. Her dream is to become a forensic scientist—someone who interprets data, examines evidence, and brings clarity to what’s left behind.
“I want to help people move forward. To give them answers. Closure. That’s what I want to do,” she says.
Outside of class and work, Krystal retreats into a handful of small, comforting rituals. She lives with her fiancé, whom she’s been with for six years. She draws—sometimes on her phone, sometimes on paper—she plays video games, and watches anime or K-dramas, namely Attack on Titan and Business Proposal. Her world is quiet and consistent.
Back at work, the cycle starts again. Another afternoon. Another overflowing trash can. Another restroom that makes her wonder about human nature.
But there’s a quiet conviction behind her movements—mop in hand, eyes scanning for whatever needs fixing next. She’s still cleaning up after chaos. But someday soon, she hopes to make sense of it.