Jazz’s optics flickered online, greeted by the dim, oppressive light of a prison cell. Cold metal pressed against his back, his joints stiff and unyielding. He tried to move, but his body refused to cooperate. His wrists and ankles were weighed down by thick cuffs, and a restrictive band clung tightly around his waist, keeping his movements slow and clumsy. A tracker buzzed faintly around his neck, its presence a chilling reminder of his captors’ control.

What have I gotten myself into?

Jazz’s thoughts raced, searching for a solution, an escape plan, anything. But his limbs felt heavy, numb. His every effort to move sent dull, aching pain through his systems. Had the ‘Cons injected him with something? It sure felt like it—his strength was sapped, and his normally sharp reflexes were dulled.

He clenched his jaw, scanning his surroundings as best he could from his limited position. Come on, Jazz, he thought, there’s gotta be a way outta this.

But every breath, every thought, only hammered home one truth: he was trapped. And the clock was ticking.