"Hey, Fred, got a sec?" Leo called out, striding across the prison's sun-baked work yard.
The camera swept down from above, revealing Fred Carter, a seasoned inmate, chatting with two others. Fred glanced back, nodding to his buddies. "Be right there."
He ambled over to Leo. "What's up?"
"I need to get to that roof," Leo said, pointing toward the work yard's main building. A blue-handled chisel glinted on a windowsill in the connected corridor, just beyond the roof's edge.
Fred followed his gaze. The work yard, a grim patch of concrete where inmates toiled at sewing machines or boxed matches, was heavily guarded. That roof was Leo's ticket to the chisel—a key to their escape.
"Holy crap, it's that chisel from the demo!"
"Been sitting there forever, huh? (lol)"
"Prison's basically a resort, right? (smirk)"
"Gotta grab that chisel, man."
"This place screams old-school prison flick vibes."
"What, you digging a tunnel for 19 years?"
"Keep chiseling, Leo, you'll get there (eye roll)."
"Wild…"
Fred smirked, accepting a pack of smokes from Leo. Deal sealed.
The next day, thanks to Fred's pull, Yin and Cory landed gigs cleaning the roof.
"See, it's all about connections," Cory said, mopping the roof while grinning at his livestream chat. "In a place like this, you cozy up to guys like Fred. He's got the keys to the kingdom."
"We're not actually in a labor camp, dude," Yin cut in, rolling his eyes. "Focus. How do we snag that chisel?"
Cory scrubbed harder, muttering, "Working on it. That scaffold's the way, but there's a guard right there. Ideas?"
The roof was tight—two guards patrolling. One loomed behind them, the other blocked the north emergency exit, right by the scaffold. To reach the chisel, they'd need to ditch the north guard.
Snap! Cory "accidentally" broke his mop handle, weighing it in his hand. "What if we just… take him out?"
The chat erupted:
"Classic Cory, ready to brawl!"
"Neutralize the guard, not terminate (facepalm)."
"Smack him with the stick—whack, whack!"
"Physical persuasion, huh? (wink)"
"Seven-year sentence? Nah, make it 14."
"Dying laughing…"
"Cool it," Yin said, snatching the stick from Cory. "No felonies today."
But as they grabbed the broken mop, the guard behind them barked, "Hey! What're you two muttering about? Get to work!"
"Uh…" Yin's eyes lit up. "Sir, my mop's busted. Can you check it?"
"Busted? Get a new one!" The guard waved dismissively. "Quit yapping."
Jackpot. Yin caught the hint—this was their shot.
"Yo, sir," Yin said, shuffling to the north guard with the broken mop. "Mop's toast. Got a spare?"
The guard eyed him suspiciously. "Stay put. I'll grab one." He unlocked the emergency door, stepped inside, and shut it.
Now! Yin waved frantically at Cory, who was peeking from the other side. "Move, move!"
They darted to the scaffold. Yin braced against it, knees bent, hands cupped. "Up!"
Cory stepped into Yin's hands, but—click!—the door handle turned.
Squeak. The guard was back.
Yin hoisted Cory with a grunt, spinning to face the scaffold like he was just inspecting it. "Hey! What're you doing?!" the guard shouted, mop in hand.
"Whoa!" Yin flinched, standing at attention. "Just checking the scaffold, sir!"
"Checking what?" The guard glanced at the scaffold—too high for one guy to climb—then tossed Yin the mop. "Back to work. No wandering."
"Yessir!" Yin grabbed the mop and hustled off, the guard's eyes boring into his back.
Cory, crouched behind scaffold debris, held his breath, heart pounding.
The chat went nuts:
"OMG, I stopped breathing!"
"Anyone else sweating?"
"This game's camera work is next-level."
"My toes were tapping, man."
"Yin and Cory's heart rates hit 130! Insane!"
"Half a second from busted. Too close!"
"You can breathe now, folks."
"Exhales…"
Thrilling. Tense. A heartbeat from disaster.
With the guard distracted, Cory tiptoed to the windowsill, snagged the chisel, and slipped through the skylight into the building. Yin unlocked the roof door, and they rendezvoused, passing the chisel to Fred under the radar.
"Whew, what a rush!" Zoey Parker sprawled on the couch, sipping a Coke, her pink-socked feet dangling over the armrest. Gus Harper's hands gently kneaded them, warm and steady.
Ever since Zoey playfully stuck her feet in Gus's lap during a car ride, she'd gotten hooked on the feeling. Those rough, warm hands on her feet sent a tickle through her heart—like a soft brush or a cozy fire in winter. Comforting, thrilling, addictive.
"So, happy ending, right?" Zoey asked, tilting her head at Gus.
"Spoilers kill the vibe," Gus said, dodging the question. "It's like opening a mystery novel and seeing the killer's name circled in red. No fun without the suspense."
"Then let's play it," Zoey said, setting down her Coke. "Let's make our own movie."
Sure, Gus had pulled a fast one on her at the GDC demo, but Escape Plan was undeniable. The co-op thrill, the step-by-step escape—it hooked even a game-ignorant exec like her. The cinematic visuals were top-tier, but in the IndieVibe X2 cabin? Pure adrenaline.
"Not watching the stream?" Gus asked, raising an eyebrow, still holding her feet.
"Nah, we'll star in it ourselves," Zoey said, nodding. "The game auto-edits and exports. We play, then watch our blockbuster."
"Deal." Gus popped a handful of potato chips, wiped his hands, and stood. "Let's roll."
Zoey's cheeks flushed as her toes curled. He didn't wipe his hands before eating… only after. Was she just a snack to him?
Rumble. A cart's wheels clattered on the prison's concrete floor.
Cold steel bars lined the dark cells, rigid and unforgiving. On the second-floor walkway, a guard patrolled with a stun baton. Fred Carter pushed a supply cart behind him.
At Leo's cell, Fred paused, pulling a green-covered Bible from the cart. "Hey, Leo."
"Fred." Leo stepped to the bars.
Fred slipped him the Bible. "The path to freedom's inside. Amen."
Leo flipped it open. A chisel dropped into his hand. Amen.
"Holy crap, that line's straight out of a classic!" Zoey squealed, goosebumps prickling her skin. The dialogue and setup pulled her right into a gritty prison flick.
"Where do I dig?" she asked, hefting the chisel—her old friend from the demo.
Gus, as Vincent, leaned on the bars of his cell. "Move the toilet. There's a seal behind it."
Zoey complied. "Got it."
"Unscrew it," Gus whispered.
Scrape, scrape. "Done."
"Steel mesh?"
"Yup."
"Loosen the frame—someone's coming!"
Footsteps echoed. Zoey's heart lurched. She shoved the toilet back just as a guard's flashlight beam swept in.
"What're you doing?!" the guard barked.
"Reading, sir," Zoey said, holding up the Bible, chisel hidden in its spine. "Just borrowed it."
The guard stared, found nothing odd, and moved on.
Zoey exhaled, heart racing. This game was a pressure cooker—no ghosts, no psychos, just raw tension.
She slid the toilet aside again, chipped at the seal. Set in 1972, the prison's walls were crumbling, neglected. With Gus keeping watch, Zoey cracked open a small hole, kicked out the steel mesh, and revealed a crawlspace just wide enough for one.
She passed the chisel to Gus. Now it was her turn to stand guard.
One by one, they cleared the mesh in both cells. At 10 p.m., the prison's lights clicked off, plunging the block into darkness save for dim emergency glows.
Rustle. They shifted their toilets, crawled through the gaps, and pulled the fixtures back to cover their tracks.
They were out.
The chat would've lost it—cheers, relief, pure hype. But this was just step one.
The maintenance tunnels beyond were a maze, and the prison was a fortress. Gus and Zoey stood before a dark inspection shaft, exchanged a nod, and knew more prep was needed.
Freedom was close—but not yet.