He moved to the control panel, yanking off the cover. A tangle of colored wires, a jumble of circuits. He didn't have tools. He didn't have time. His eyes scanned the mess, finding the primary power conduit, a thick, insulated cable feeding the overloading mechanism. It was a stupid, crude design, meant for spectacle, not subtlety. A mistake.
He ripped the pistol from its holster, flipped it, and with a single, precise motion, smashed the grip against the conduit. Plastic and metal shattered. Sparks flew, and the hum of the generator stuttered, then died, replaced by a sizzling, acrid smell of burnt wiring.
Silence.
He bought himself time. But he was still in a box.
He holstered the ruined pistol and turned back to the door, running his hands over the seamless surface. No hinges on this side. No lock. Just solid steel. His eyes, now adjusting to the sliver of light from under the door, scanned the frame. There. A hairline fracture around the locking mechanism. A weak point.
