It started with fire. It always does.
Max lit the cocaine-soaked rag behind the boiler room panel — a place no one checked, no cameras reached, and no one cared enough to monitor. The flame hissed, caught on the chemical-soaked cloth, and crawled like a hungry beast toward the exposed gas line.
He didn't stay long. He didn't need to. The rest of the plan was already alive — boiling in the pipes above the prison ceiling.
He walked back into the hall, mop in hand, silent, head down.
But he didn't make it twenty feet before the guards swarmed him.
"Hey! Hands up! Now!"
Max didn't resist. He only smiled.Because it had begun.
Solitary Confinement – Holding Cell #3
The door slammed behind him with a metallic finality.A slit of light cut across the floor from the guard's flashlight. Then it vanished.
Max stood in silence for a moment, letting the darkness wrap around him like a blanket. He could feel the heat rising from the floor — the fire was spreading.
Just as planned.
"I want to speak to Warden Zharov," he said calmly, to no one in particular.
He knew they heard.
And they did.
Ten minutes later, footsteps echoed through the hall like drumbeats of fate.
Zharov appeared at the door, his sleeves rolled up, rage carved into every wrinkle of his face. The door was yanked open, and Max didn't move. Not when the first punch landed. Not when the second shattered the edge of his cheekbone. He just laughed.
"YOU LITTLE SHIT!" Zharov roared, slamming him against the cold wall. "You think this is funny?! Setting a fire in my prison?! You know where you lit it? The boiler room! The damn thing's still burning!"
Max coughed blood.
And smiled.
"Perfect," he whispered.
That's when the first click-hiss echoed overhead.
Zharov froze.
The fire alarm.
Then, the unmistakable screeeech of the old sprinkler system kicking to life.
Then — gas.
Instant Chaos – Gas Deployment
The moment the bleach and ammonia mixture hit high temperatures, the gas dispersed into chlorine vapor — invisible, suffocating, deadly.
Outside the cell, guards were already coughing, wheezing, stumbling.
Max lunged forward, yanking Zharov's coat off him before the Warden could react. He wrapped it tightly around his face and hands — shielding himself.
"Thanks for the coat," Max muttered through fabric, then shoved Zharov into the wall, knocking the wind out of him.
He kicked open the cell door and stepped into pandemonium.
Sirens wailed. Bodies dropped. Screams filled the air.
And Max walked through it like a ghost.
The Yard – Under Gaslight Sky
Max emerged into the prison yard.Dozens of inmates and guards alike crawled across the ground, hacking, eyes burning, lungs seizing.
This… this was what he wanted.
Not death.Distraction.
His eyes locked on the perimeter fence — two layers, barbed, electrified.
The first he scaled fast, adrenaline and flickers of power kicking into his limbs like fuel. Cuts opened on his palms, but he didn't stop. The second fence ended at the watchtower base, part of the wall's backbone.
That's where he was headed.
Watchtower Assault
Max reached the tower door, a keypad locking it shut.
He placed his hand on the panel and focused — just like he had in the mirror every night. The humming sensation returned in his nerves, like static building in his skin.
A snap of electric current danced from his fingers to the lock.
Pop.
The door clicked open.
Inside, the first officer barely had time to react before Max grabbed his head and slammed it against the concrete wall. The body collapsed, limp.
Max took his rifle and started climbing the spiral stairs. Halfway up, more guards shouted from above.
"HEY! HE'S IN THE TOWER!"
They came fast. Two. Then four.
Max fired — short, precise bursts. One dropped. Another staggered back. The rest kept coming.
Click.
Out of bullets.
Max swung the gun like a club, smashing one across the face. He ducked a baton, then jammed the rifle's stock into a jaw, cracking bone. Another swung wildly — Max caught the blow with his forearm, twisted, and threw the man over the railing.
They all fell eventually.
Control Room – Tower Peak
He kicked the final door open. A guard turned — older, high-ranking. Max didn't care.
He threw the rifle like a spear.
CRACK.
The butt of the gun shattered across the man's temple. He hit the desk hard and didn't move.
Max stood still, bloodied and panting.
He looked out the wide glass window — the yard, now a gas-choked warzone. Officers still hadn't regained control. Perfect.
Then he saw it — the fiber-optic cable, wrapped in metal casing, stretched down like a lifeline from the tower's radio post.
A zipline.
Max smashed the window with a chair. Wind screamed inside.
He ripped the helmet from one of the fallen guards and climbed onto the ledge. The cable groaned under pressure.
No room for fear now.
He wrapped the helmet strap around the cable, gripping it tight, feet hovering over open air.
"I'm not Pietro," he muttered.
"But I can run like hell."
And then he jumped.