I look around the panic room with fresh eyes, forcing myself to see it not as a prison but as a puzzle. There has to be a weakness. There has to be something I can exploit.
The room is maybe twelve by twelve feet. Steel walls. Steel door. A cot in one corner with blankets and pillows. Shelves stocked with water bottles, protein bars, and other snacks. A small bathroom in the corner with a toilet and sink. Overhead lights that are too bright and making my rage-headache worse.
And there—on the far wall—a vent. Ventilation system.
I run to it, my hands already reaching for the grate. It’s screwed in but maybe I can?—
The screws are tiny. Some kind of security screws that need a special tool I don’t have. I try prying at them with my fingernails and only succeed in breaking two nails down to the quick.
“Fuck!” I shout at the vent, which doesn’t care about my problems.
Okay. Not the vent. What else?
I pace the room, my mind racing. Think like Leo. Think like someone who designs panic rooms. There has to be a way out from the inside—building codes probably require it, fire safety, something. You can’t just trap someone in a steel box with no emergency exit.
There’s a control panel by the door. It’s small and mounted at chest height. It’s got a keypad and a small screen that’s currently showingLOCKEDin red letters that feel extremely fucking unhelpful.
I press buttons at random. Nothing happens. The screen just keeps showingLOCKEDin its smug red letters.
I try what I think might be Leo’s code—his birthday, my birthday, the date he took me. Hell, I even try the first day we had sex and every significant number I can think of. Nothing. Just an error beep that sounds irritatingly cheerful. After the fifth failed attempt, the screen flashesLOCKOUT MODE ACTIVATED. KEYPAD DISABLED FOR 10 MINUTES.
“You havegotto be kidding me!” I slam my fist into the wall next to the panel and immediately regret it as pain shoots through my already-bruised knuckles. I cry out and massage my hand, feeling tears of pain well up in my eyes.
Ten minutes. I don’thaveten minutes. Leo could be dead in ten minutes. My father could be dead. Everyone could be dead and I’ll still be in here.
No. No, I’m not waiting ten minutes.
There has to be something else. Another way.
I run my hands along the walls, feeling for anything unusual. A hidden button. A secret latch.Something. The steel is smooth and cold under my palms, yielding nothing. I check every corner and seam, every place where the walls meet the floor or ceiling.
Nothing. Nothing.Nothing.
I’m going to fucking lose my mind. I’m going to?—
Wait.
There’s a seam. It’s small, almost invisible right next to the control panel, partially hidden by the panel itself.
A panel behind the panel. That’s so Leo it’s almost funny. Paranoid bastard probably has redundant systems for everything.
I dig my fingernails into the seam and pull. Nothing. It’s sealed tight, probably magnetically locked or something equally impossible to open with just my hands.
I need leverage. Something thin and strong enough to wedge into the seam. I rush over to the shelves and look at my options.
The protein bars are useless. The water bottles are plastic. The cot has a metal frame but it’s bolted to the floor. The bathroom has…
I run to the sink, yanking open the small cabinet. Toilet paper. Cleaning supplies. A plunger. Completely useless for breaking into security panels.
But then I see it and it’s like the heavens have opened and angels are singing.
A first aid kit.
I grab it and dump the contents onto the floor. Bandages, antiseptic, gauze, medical tape, pain relievers—there. A small pair of medical scissors, the kind with blunt tips, but they’re metal and they’re thin.
Bingo.
I run back to the panel and jam the scissors into the seam, prying with all my strength. My hands are sweaty and cold, making it hard to get a good grip. The scissors slip and I nearly stab myself in the palm.