SHERIFF STALLARD:

  Q. You work as a Game Master for BREAKOUT, correct?

  A. You know, I don’t understand why you’re interrogating me. I am

  a BREAKOUT Game Master, but—

  Q. And you were the Game Master during the session that resulted

  in an uncontrolled fire, the blocking of multiple paths of egress, and

  the asphyxiation of seventeen-year-old Matteo Cesari. Correct? So,

  once again… Your name, for the record. Please.

  A. Malachi James-May.

  Q. James-May, as in the owners of BREAKOUT Escape Rooms Inc.?

  A. Look, everyone in Cedar Creek is aware that I’m the son of the

  owners. Respectfully, Sheriff, you’re not fooling anyone with this

  know-nothing act. And I understand the whole county is breathing

  down your neck for you to figure out why Matt ended up dead, but

  believe me—you don’t want to pin this on the Black kid.

  SHERIFF STALLARD: And what about the kid who illegally let his

  friends into a business after hours? A kid untrained in basic fire

  safety measures, who didn’t follow a building’s outlined fire code,

  and indirectly caused the death of a seventeen-year-old? Would

  you blame that kid? Would you have questions for that kid? Would

  you want answers from that kid?

  MR. LEWIS: Stallard.

  MALACHI JAMES-MAY: I didn’t cause anyone’s death, Sheriff.

  Indirectly or not.

  SHERIFF STALLARD: Don’t be smart with me, son. Now, let’s get

  back on track. How—

  MR. LEWIS: Hang on, Sheriff. I think we should take five. Mr.

  James-May, let’s get you a glass of water, huh?

  MALACHI JAMES-MAY: I’m fine.

  [BRIEF INTERMISSION.]

  SHERIFF STALLARD:

  Q. Once again, this is Sheriff Travis Stallard, resuming witness

  interview with Malachi James-May at 2:05 PM. Malachi, can you

  confirm you’re resuming this voluntary interview of your own free

  will? Just lean into your mic for me.

  A. Yes, I am.

  Q. Wonderful. And how long have you been working as a Game

  Master for BREAKOUT?

  A. Since the age of twelve. My parents own the business, so the laws

  are different.

  Q. What does your role entail?

  A. Officially, I’m in charge of presiding over the games themselves.

  I provide groups—both booked players and walk-ins—with

  information about how BREAKOUT works and what our ground

  rules are. I ensure that every participating player has signed our

  nonnegotiable waiver, and then I also lead them to their game room.

  Once a group starts their game, I monitor the cameras in the control

  room while they play.

  Q. Based on that description, I’m assuming you were in the control

  room when the fire started, correct?

  A. Correct.

  Q. And how many cameras do you have access to in the control

  room? How many unique feeds?

  A. It depends on the room itself—Chemistry Class, our easiest room,

  only had one. But Wanderland was rated at a five-star difficulty. It

  had four cameras.

  Q. Tell me, son: Did you see how the fire started?

  A. No. It happened too quickly to tell, so I didn’t notice the fire until

  it was too late. But I left the control room as soon as I realized there

  was an emergency. There was so much smoke in the hallway—

  thankfully, it cleared long enough for me to see that the players used

  the emergency escape to leave. I figured everyone had made it out, so I

  ran outside to regroup with the others. I didn’t fight the fire myself—at

  that point, the flames were hot enough to melt my skin. But our rooms

  are extremely safe. They’re not fireproof, but we’ve passed inspection.

  We’re up to code.

  Q. What about Matteo Cesari? Can you describe

  your relationship with him?

  A. Matt was a friend. I was closer to his brother, but we got along.

  72. 73. He liked the rooms at BREAKOUT. He liked talking to me about

  the job.

  Q. Your job?

  A. Yeah. He was having problems with one of his managers at the

  bowling alley, so he wanted to know if my parents were hiring for a

  Game Master. He liked picking my brain about the role. He thought

  he’d be good at it.

  Q. Do you know which manager Matt was having problems with?

  A. No. But honestly, Matt didn’t get along with most people. He

  was kind of a loner. Quiet and reserved. And he always wore this

  trench coat that kids at school made fun of. They called him a school

  shooter in the making, things like that.

  Q. Great, Malachi. Just one more question: Were you aware

  that Matteo Cesari operated Cedar Creek Confessions? After he

  died, Matt’s assets were seized by my department as part of the

  larger investigation into his death. Files on his computer led us

  to confirm that Matteo Cesari owned and operated the Instagram

  account beginning on the twentieth of August last year. While

  attending Cedar Creek High School, he created over seventeen

  exposés, anonymously, through the account, about various

  classmates.

  MR. LEWIS: [CLEARS THROAT]

  SHERIFF STALLARD: And you—and the rest of the kids inside

  BREAKOUT when the fire started—were all people he targeted.

  MALACHI JAMES-MAY: Is that part of the question, Sheriff? Because

  it sounds more like an accusation to me.

  SHERIFF STALLARD: Now, son—

  MALACHI JAMES-MAY: I’d like you to keep in mind that holding

  me against my will is a violation of my Fifth Amendment rights,

  Sheriff, and—

  MR. LEWIS: You are free to leave at any time.

  SHERIFF STALLARD: Thank you for your time today, Malachi.

  We’ll make sure to follow up with you if our department has any

  additional questions.

  MALACHI JAMES-MAY: I’m sure you’d like to. But the next time

  y’all wanna speak to me, you’re gonna have to go through my

  lawyer first.

  [END OF INDIVIDUAL INTERVIEW WITH MALACHI

  JAMES-MAY.]

  Wednesday, May 20, 2026, 11:27 PM

  “Okay, Steffi,” Tobias says, cinching the nylon rope from the first room’s padlocked trunk around one of the dining chairs to secure it to the dining table, “keep in mind that you’re going to clang the shit out of these vents on your way to the control room. You won’t have the element of surprise—if Malachi is behind this, he’ll probably hear you coming.”

  I nod, but I’m only half listening, because my mind keeps flashing back to Charity’s caved-in skull. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, attempting to snap out of it. Be normal. Become the kind of girl who can work her way through an HVAC. Escape.

  But the truth is, I’m not equipped for this. Arsonist’s Revenge already took the Cedar Creek High School student body president. My childhood BFF. The girl who juggled a million extracurriculars and still had time for her friends. What’s to stop this escape room from claiming me, too? Compared to Charity’s golden girl track record, I’m a stain on my hometown, on the reputation of Sheriff Stallard, and on the history of this entire fucking franchise. Why do I deserve to survive if Charity Noelle Adler isn’t coming out of BREAKOUT with us?

  Standing in the hot, humid air of a Tennessee spring night. Charity across from me, idly leaning against the frosted glass of the BREAKOUT storefront as she snaps selfies for her own amusement. Tobias next to her, rubbing his hands up and down his freckled arms, leveling another glare at me. “Are you sure they’re coming?” Guinevere’s head on my shoulder as she takes a drag of her Marlboro Red. The hind wings of her resin luna moth earrings fluttering against her hair when she blows out the smoke.

  “Steffi,” Tobias snaps, jolting me back to the present. Jesus. That was real. Again, which means playing an escape room inside BREAKOUT with all my ex-friends is actually reversing my amnesia in a way that a full year of Call-Me-Diana’s hypnotherapy never did. His impatient expression locks on mine, and I swallow the acid on my tongue. Damn. He’s been talking this entire time.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, and I am. I wish I could pay attention, stay in the present, and stop losing myself in fragments of strange memories. “I hear you, though. Noise, control room, no element of surprise.” I blink. “But we mapped out the layout together, right? So I’ll be able to find my way back.” I look back at the building schematics. “I remember the way, Tobias. Malachi told me the system is new, and the ducts are big—big enough to fit a person. It’ll be fine.”

  “We’re supposed to trust her?” Guinevere asks, cutting her eyes to Tobias in disbelief. This whole plan has come together rather quickly, but Gee is clearly still reeling from the fact I’m actually being trusted with this task. “She’s the one who can’t remember anything, and you’re basing our entire plan on having her memorize a route?” Her nails dig into her arms. “Santo looked at the blueprints, too.”

  Matt’s brother shakes his head. “I’m not going up there.” When I glance at him, he frowns. “I mean, Zamekova’s the best bet we have! Let’s take a chance on her.”

  “Nice save,” I mutter, stomach twisting as Tobias does one final tug on the rope. The dining chair wobbles a bit, but it holds steady. Steady enough for me to scale it, hopefully.

  “Okay. If we’re actually going to do this, you need to be one hundred percent confident you can pull this off.” Tobias cocks his head. “Are you ready for this, Steffi?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, tearing my gaze away from Santo’s waxen face. Back to the metal shaft above me, to Matt’s flickering silhouette dancing at the edges of the magenta-lit bathroom set, to the imagined ashes dripping from my fingertips and onto the white tiles below my sneakers. “Yeah, I am.”

  But what if I’m not? What if we’ve overestimated the capabilities of the HVAC itself? What if I can’t find the control room? What if I plummet to my death? What if—

  “Good,” Tobias says, cutting off my thought spiral, and there it is again, that sense of brewing danger. “We’re counting on it.”

  God, I hope I can pull this off. BREAKOUT’s interconnected air ducts are practically emblazoned on the backs of my eyelids, but Guinevere is right—there’s always a chance my memory will fail me. I can’t show weakness, though. If I do, the other players will take this opportunity from me. And I can’t stay inside Arsonist’s Revenge any longer. It’s part of There’s No Escape Rule #24: If your player group is annoying the fuck out of you, take a breather.

  Which means I need to brave the hodgepodge of precariously stacked furniture the others have assembled to aid me in reaching the HVAC. I stretch as I remember Malachi’s house rules: Please do not jump, pull on, or climb objects within the room. Remember: If it takes more than two fingers of force, you probably shouldn’t be doing it.

  Luckily, the mouth of the vent isn’t too high above us—we found enough prop items to significantly bridge the gap—but it’ll still be difficult for me to clamber up the makeshift ladder, reach the metal lip, and find my way through the ducts and into the control room.

  My dad’s voice echoes in my head: One thing at a time, Peanut.

  “Ready?” Santo asks. I nod, and he and Tobias boost me onto the dining table. Guinevere sucks her teeth as I outstretch my fingers, balancing my way to a dining chair with my hand against the tiled wall for stability as the legs teeter to one side—but there it is: the familiar determination that’s fueled me through over two hundred escape rooms just like this one.

  I crouch, waiting for the chair to adjust to my lower center of gravity, and then I—slowly, slowly, slowly—raise my body until I’m standing again. The HVAC is straight ahead, but I’ll have to jump to reach it.

  I glance at the LCD monitor, mumble a haphazard prayer, and launch myself forward, slamming into the HVAC’s hot siding. My fingers immediately scrabble for purchase against the slick metal, but there’s nothing to hold onto except stray nails and washers. Pain shoots up my forearms as my sweat-slicked left hand starts to slide off the metal lip.

  “Come on, Zamekova,” Santo calls. “You got this, Steff.”

  Somewhere below me, I dimly register the tower of furniture crashing to the ground, Guinevere cursing, and the continued sound of Santo’s murmured encouragement. I fight against the urge to look down. I don’t need to assess how high I’m dangling off the ground to know that if I let go now, I’ll definitely break a bone.

  My arms tremble. I don’t have a choice. Jaw set, I strain my muscles until I catch the cuff of Matt’s trench coat on one of the protruding spikes emerging from farther inside the HVAC. The leather snags, giving me enough leverage to wedge my right shoulder inside the vent, and then I twist, scrambling, until the material rips. Shit. The one memento I have to remember Matt by, and I just fucking ruined it.

  The white flash of exposed nerve endings. Stars. Smoke. A falling beam. A guttural sound bursting from my mouth.

  Rattling reverberates through my skull. I’m inside the vent. Matt’s jacket is fucked, but the world didn’t drop out from under me.

  Cheers erupt from Arsonist’s Revenge. “You good?” Santo shouts.

  I press my forehead against the sweating metal and try to stop my rabbiting heartbeat. It feels like I’m within reach of a memory. A real one. One from the night Matt died. But I need to respond.

  “Yeah,” I say, surprised at how steady my voice is. “I’m good.” I take another four-six-eight breath. “This may actually work.” A beat. “What if I fall, though?”

  “You’re not going to fall.” This from Guinevere, her tone clipped. “Just go. We all want to get out of here as soon as we can.”

  I try to concentrate, to expand the burning edges of the memory, but the scene slips through my fingers. I’m in the HVAC now. And the only way out is through.

  Feeling suddenly grateful that I got a Tdap booster when I was fifteen, I unhook what’s left of my mangled sleeve from the HVAC nail and start crawling through the air shaft. Despite my love for escape rooms, I don’t love cramped spaces. But if this is a viable escape route—if the HVAC leads to any other room within BREAKOUT—then the four of us might actually escape Arsonist’s Revenge without facing any more accidents. So I fend off the impending death-march swirling through my head; and I ignore the searing pain in my upper thigh as my skin scrapes against a protruding screw; and I breathe in mildew and dust mites as I clear the stationary blades of a giant axial fan, my knees shuffling forward, pretending I’m inhaling Dad’s familiar sawdust-and-shaving-cream scent instead.

  Him, I remember. No fire can take those memories away from me.

  Dad got me into escape rooms. He was only a casual enthusiast, but he loved brainteasers: Einstein’s Puzzles, Scrabble, Rummikub, Bananagrams. Our Saturdays were always reserved for family game nights: Mom laughing so hard at his wisecracks that she’d need to run to the bathroom in the middle of Go Fish; arguing over how many hotels you could place on Monopoly’s Atlantic Avenue before the other players were legally allowed to beat you to death with their silver pieces; competing over who could solve the most clues in the New York Times crossword. For my twelfth birthday, he took me to Atlanta to play Jailbreak at PanIQ, and I’ve been hooked ever since. When Malachi’s parents announced BREAKOUT’s grand opening, the two of us were so excited to go together. Except we never got to.

  My throat tightens. “Move on,” I grunt, sliding through another curve in the HVAC system. The galvanized steel underneath me feels flimsier with every inch I gain while also simultaneously burning my skin, but all I can do is keep my head down, push forward, and hope I’ll make it out.

  I finish working my way through the curve, after which the ductwork branches off in three directions. Directly ahead, there’s another huge fan. This one is also immobile, but I don’t want to tempt fate more than absolutely necessary, so instead I turn my attention to the leftmost path. I’m about to go through it—thank you, mental map skills—when a rectangular piece of… something lying farther down the rightmost duct catches my eye. I furrow my brows and change course, wriggling toward the flat object until I can grasp it. I drag my hand backward and across another tetanus-inducing nail, and then I draw in an acetic breath as the page comes into focus in the low light.

  It’s another photograph.

  “What the hell?” The words ripple off the air shaft, echoing through the metal—toward the control room, toward our Game Master, toward Malachi James-May—but right now, the only thing that matters is the tangible, sharp-edged memory in my hand.

  Instead of depicting our scratched-out faces or our blood-steeped bodies, the third photograph, captured shortly after we completed Egyptian Tomb over winter break a year and a half ago, is completely normal at first glance. But the longer I stare at it in the baking HVAC’s dim light, the more capital-W Wrong details I see, like I’m playing the world’s most fucked-up version of I Spy: Charity’s skin blurred to oblivion, Santo’s smiling mouth pulled into a grotesque scowl, Tobias’s missing eyes, Guinevere’s rotated features, Malachi’s distended jaw, my blackened pupils. Matt, standing directly in the middle, is the only one who looks normal. The sign he’s holding has been edited, though. Instead of saying I WANT MY MUMMY like it did when Malachi took this selfie, it now reads NOT A FAN?

  A drop of sweat slides down my spine. Whoever is keeping us within Arsonist’s Revenge must have anticipated we’d try this. This is another fucking clue inside the goddamn HVAC.

  We don’t have the element of surprise at all.

  Hands shaking, I flip the Egyptian Tomb photograph over. A sob breaks my lips as I read the message scrawled on the back. I have no idea what this sentence means, though I suspect I’ll find out soon enough.