Everything was red.
The alarms howled like a beast with a megaphone. Lights blinked erratically. Concrete trembled beneath their feet. And Selene Sinclair, barefoot and very much overdressed in her silk kimono, blinked slowly as the world tilted into complete chaos.
Her eyes darted to Blake. He looked grim, like a man who'd just realized he was the only adult in a room full of pyromaniacs and matchsticks. Daphne, their powerhouse lawyer, frowned hard enough to crack marble.
"We may have legal grounds," he muttered, "but no way out now. We're sealed in."
Selene smoothed her windswept hair back with faux calm and said, cheerfully, "Don't worry. I've got us a way out."
Everyone paused. For one long second, the prison itself seemed to hold its breath.
Blake raised an eyebrow. Daphne stared at her like she'd announced plans to jump off a building with an umbrella. Delano snorted loud enough to offend the air.
"What a pretentious brat," he muttered.
Selene smiled. "Run!" She whispered.
And she bolted.
Her foot caught on the edge of her kimono.
"Oh crap—"
She stumbled, arms flailing, and nearly faceplanted into a concrete wall. Before humiliation could finish her arc, Daphne swooped in and hoisted her up like she weighed nothing.
"Apologies, Miss Sinclair," he said coolly, like carrying heiresses was part of his training.
Selene recovered quickly, squinting ahead like a commander mid-battle. She pointed with flair. "THAT WAY! TO THE PRISON YARD!"
Everyone blinked.
Blake's jaw twitched. "Did she say—"
One of the Hamilton guards frowned. "Is this a diversion? Prison yard's the opposite of escape."
Another muttered, "I think she's lost it. Honestly."
Yet, she looked so confident. Even upside-down under Daphne's arm.
"...Should we follow?" a bodyguard asked.
Blake sighed and nodded. "You heard her."
Delano howled behind them. "AFTER THEM! DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!"
What followed was less an escape and more a disaster-themed theme park ride.
Sirens blared louder. Guards panicked. Prisoners watched through their bars like it was the midnight premiere of a blockbuster. Popcorn was found. Someone sold tickets.
Daphne ran like a battering ram blessed by caffeine and adrenaline. Guards bounced off him like foam mannequins. Automated droids sparked and flopped as he tore through the corridor.
They burst into the prison yard—a flat, floodlit wasteland of gray concrete and industrial fences. Security lights spun. A violinist was still playing the jazz Selene had arranged for ambiance. Because why not?
Ding!
[Your Private Jet "Cashburner-1" has entered prison airspace. Arrival Imminent.]
A low hum shook the ground.
Blake's brow twitched. "Was that… a roar?"
Selene grinned. "No. That was the engine."
The roar intensified. And then—
BOOM.
The Cashburner-1 descended like a luxury missile from the gods. Designed by billionaire twins with too much time and not enough empathy, the jet's landing protocol included: artificial thunder, fireworks, and—for reasons unknown—confetti cannons.
Everyone in the yard froze.
Snipers squinted. Rocket launchers turned. Guards screamed commands no one could hear.
Delano's voice cracked like his blood pressure. "FIRE! SHOOT IT DOWN! WHAT IS HAPPENING?!"
But no one moved.
Because it was just too… shiny.
Blake grabbed Selene's arm and sprinted.
"Get in the jet. Now."
Inside, the jet didn't just smell rich—it reeked of freshly ironed money and top-shelf ego. The seats were butter-soft leather. A built-in mini-fridge popped open automatically with a friendly chime, revealing pre-chilled champagne bottles labeled "For Legal Escapes Only."
A golden touchscreen panel on the wall offered snacks, therapy, and designer slippers. There was a button labeled "Summon Emotional Support DJ."
The safety instructions had been replaced with motivational quotes by anonymous rich people. And somehow, a violinist was already seated in the corner.
Blake grimaced. Then, he realized something was wrong. "Where's Daphne?!"
Selene whirled around.
And there he was.
Daphne stood at the foot of the ramp, glasses crooked, his coat torn at the shoulder, a little dust clinging to his polished shoes. The guards hadn't reached him yet, but they were coming—like a flood of fists and tasers.
He didn't look afraid.
Just… steady.
He opened his mouth, said something too quiet to hear—maybe "go," maybe "don't look back."
Then he turned.
And with a soft, resolute breath, he walked forward into the chaos.
The first line of guards hit him.
And bounced off.
But more followed. And more.
Within seconds, he was a shadow beneath a tide of riot armor.
"DAPHNE!" Selene screamed, her voice cracking into the wind. She lurched forward, but Blake grabbed her arm.
"He made a choice," Blake said, jaw tight. "He bought us seconds. We don't waste them."
Selene pressed her hands against the glass, heart pounding like a war drum. Her vision blurred. The ramp thudded shut behind them with a hydraulic hiss.
The jet began to rise.
Outside, Daphne was swallowed.
Inside, the cabin went deathly quiet.
A bodyguard touched Selene's shoulder gently. "You're safe now, Miss Sinclair."
But safety never felt so hollow.
Ding!
[Quest Failed: Escape Prison Within 12 Hours]
[Penalty Zone Activated]
[System Downgrade Imminent]
[Warning: Chaos Mechanics Engaged]
Selene's throat dried. "WHAT?! We escaped!"
Blake rubbed his forehead with a wary look.
[You were late by three seconds, Player.]
[Countdown complete. Commencing Penalty.]
The jet climbed. The lights of Atlantis blurred below. The silence in the cabin was thick.
And inside Selene's chest, a different alarm began to ring.
Because this time, it wasn't just about money.
Something much worse had just begun.