Mark's POV
I exhaled slowly, the soft scrape of the pick in the lock my only focus. My fingers trembled from exhaustion, the blood and sweat caking my skin making the task even harder. My entire body screamed for rest, but I couldn't afford to stop. This was my fifth attempt. The cold iron of the shackles seemed to mock me, as though they understood my desperation.
Click.
I froze. My heart skipped a beat. I twisted the pick once more, holding my breath. The lock gave way with a soft snap. For the first time in days—perhaps weeks—I felt a flicker of hope. Quietly, I slipped the shackle off my wrist and rubbed the raw skin beneath it. One down, one to go.
