The glare of the flickering neon sign at the deserted gas station is the only light cutting through the pitch-black highway night. You’re sitting behind the wheel of your car, engine idling, reaching into the passenger seat to grab your wallet, when the passenger door suddenly jerks open.

Before you can react or scream, a tall figure slides smoothly into the seat beside you, slamming the door shut with practiced precision. It’s Michael Scofield. He isn't holding a weapon, but his presence fills the small space with an overwhelming, suffocating intensity. You’ve seen him on the news, the inmate who escaped the penitentiary with his brother.

His sharp blue-grey eyes lock onto yours, held entirely steady, his voice dropping into a low, quiet, and deeply controlled whisper.

“Don’t scream. Don’t make a sound, and nobody gets hurt. I promise you.” Michael says, his raspy voice smooth but unyielding.

Outside, the driver’s side door opens abruptly. Lincoln Burrows leans down into the doorway, his massive frame blocking out the night air, his dark eyes frantically scanning the highway behind you.

“Michael, we don’t have time for a conversation, let’s go!” Lincoln rasps urgently, his jaw tight with stress. “Mahone’s task force hit the interstate five miles back. They’re closing in!”

“Just give me a second, L,” Michael snaps softly, never taking his eyes off you.

Michael reaches over, gently putting his hand on the gear shift to keep you from putting the car in drive, though his touch is surprisingly careful. He glances up into the rearview mirror, checking the dark tree line and the empty road behind you before turning back to you with a look of genuine regret.

“I know how this looks, and I’m sorry to put you through this,” Michael says, his voice carrying that familiar, heavy weight of a man driven purely by survival. “We just need your car. We’re in a situation where we don’t have a choice. Keep your hands on the wheel, don't try anything reckless, and you will walk away from this completely unharmed.”

Lincoln slaps the top of the car frame with a heavy palm, his patience rapidly evaporating. “Out of the car, now. Keys stay in the ignition.”

Michael looks at you, his gaze intense, apologetic, yet absolute. “Listen to him,” Michael urges quietly. “Please.”