Page 106 of Rescuing Aria
Then—a single strand snaps like a tendon. And everything starts to unravel.
The thread parts, then the fabric. A tiny notch opens, revealing a silver sliver tucked deep in the fold.
My pick set.
I crush it in my palm like a relic, dizzy with relief. A breath escapes me—sharp, short—and vanishes into the shadows. I’m not out yet. But I’m close.
I wedge the first tool into the inner lip of the cuff. My other wrist is still trapped behind my back, so I’m working blind, fingertips numb and trembling. I rotate the tension wrench gently—too much pressure and the pin shears.
Sweat curls down my back in threads. My nose stings with the stench of blood and iron, along with something moldy in the walls. I tune it all out.
Focus.
Click.
Too soft to be sure—was that real?
I adjust the angle and try again.
Another click. This one is cleaner.
Then the cuff slips off with a faint, metallic chime.
My hand falls forward, swelling already setting in. I stifle the groan, press my fist to the floor, panting.
Not yet. One last step.
I grab my dislocated thumb, anchor hard against my thigh, and shove.
The joint crunches back into place with a sickening slap.
Black spots flutter across my vision. My stomach convulses. But I stay upright.
Everything tastes like rust.
I flex my fingers. They shake. The nerves are on fire.
But they move.
I stand, slow and low, legs aching from blood pooling at awkward angles. My equilibrium teeters, but I steady myself against the wall.
Next: the door.
It’s unmarked. No obvious handle. Seamless flush paneling. Tri-lock system. Clean. Surgical. But that kind of control? Means electronics. Electronics mean wiring.
Wiring means options.
Guardian HRS embedded it in us as instinct: Every system has an override. Fire codes demand it. Natural disasters. System crashes. Even the most secure facilities have panic contingencies wired beneath the surface.
I run my fingertips around the frame, every millimeter painstakingly cataloged. Then—there. A vertical seam just left of center. Less than a fingernail thick. Matte texture interrupts the smooth lacquered surface.
I slot my pick into the edge. Drag slowly. It catches. I let it ride the groove down until the panel wiggles free with a breath of friction and pops slightly outward.
Behind it—nestled in foam insulation—is a tangled, color-coded mess of wires.
Someone cobbled this together fast. No labels. No redundancy. It wasn’t supposed to be found.
That means it might kill me.
