Ella sits in the darkness of her truck, concealed not only by the tinted windows but the shadow of the large weeping willow hanging above her, bending toward her with apathetic branches. The night seems to sense her hurt; the moon looks away, casting her into shadows so black that she is a barely visible silhouette in the cold empty street. She watches the fog crawling along the ground, rolling toward the ominous black prison wall that seems to push back against the white mist keeping it from ever touching its glistening wet surface. The fog almost obscures the abandoned navy blue Jeep pulled to the side of the road less than one hundred metres ahead, its bonnet lifted to indicate it has broken down. The light above the jeep is shattered, the glass in the dirt glinting gently in the moonlight. She doesn't know why she is here, watching, waiting. It's such a risk and yet she can't she make herself leave. There is nothing here for her now. Suddenly the sky lights up as flashes of light leap over the walls of the prison in a beautifully violent fireworks display. Her comforting darkness is chased away, and she is exposed by the light. Quickly she turns over the engine of her truck, pulls the steering wheel full lock and spins her wheels on the loose gravel as she speeds away, running after the darkness; running away from the white hot light that threatens to expose the jagged edges of her broken heart.

Michael perches precariously on the very edge of his cot in petrified stillness, like an ancient statue, his skin like marble in the ghostly light of the night. His watch beeps and within seconds he feels the floor beneath him trembles anew. He can hear the inmates in the cells around him, above and below him, rushing to their cell doors shouting in confusion, banging on the bars to get the guards attention. Instead, Michael sprints to the back of his cell and pulls the filthy silver toilet from its space against the wall. He dives through the hole hidden behind it, in such a rush to wriggle through the tiny gap that he catches his ribs on the right side. The adrenaline pumping through his veins masks the pain as he drags himself out the other side and pulls the toilet back behind him. No time to make sure the toilet is in its right position; this will be the last time he ever crawls through that space. He squeezes past the hot pipes running along the thin passageway, remembering the searing pain they caused when he burned away the vital details of part of his map of tattoos and passes through the hole in the wall he and Sucre had drilled by hand. The ground beneath him continues to shake, sometimes just a small shudder, other times like an earthquake. He talks himself through his escape route again and again in his head, hastening towards the place where he will meet his brother.

All along the corridor leading to Lincoln's cell a series of small explosions, one triggering the next, detonate in blinding flashes, moving further away from his cell door, sealing the corridor to prevent guards from interrupting his escape. Link staggers to his feet, stumbling as he steps over rubble, groping with unsteady hands as he searches for the gaping fissure in the wall, through the blinding dust hanging in the air. He is covered in a fine white powder, even the tiny stubbly regrowth on the top of his head and his chin has a light coating, making him appear as a pale ghost of his former self, though he knows he is no apparition. The blood pounds in his ears, the deafening sound like the roar of a fierce ocean; disorienting him in the small room. His hands find the wall, and it seems as if the cold hard stone is beating in time with his heart as the tremors from hundreds of tiny secondary explosive devices are triggered in a chain reaction throughout the prison grounds. He pulls away some loose bricks to widen the gap and crouches to climb through into the crawl space. He curses to himself at the time spent in the yard working out, had he not; he would have fit comfortably in the cramped space he now finds himself in. Instead he finds he can just bend his knees enough against the wall in front that he can lift his feet and push against the wall behind him with his back. Pressing as hard as he can he begins to slowly scale up between the two rough blue stone walls. All the chaos cannot stop him from picturing her face, tears streaming down her pale cheeks; her steely blue eyes the most lovely, terrifying thing he has ever seen. The thought of seeing her drives him further, pushing himself upwards with all his strength.