Runaway

"Come on, come on, don't drag your feet."

A guard was pushing along a line of blindfolded and handcuffed people in dirtied all white clothes.

They were walking down a dimly lit hallway made of dark gray stone. The lights flickered in the distance.

The only sounds heard were the shuffling of the captives' feet, and the jingle-jangle of the metal cuffs on their wrists and ankles.

One of the captives had spiky pink hair. His blindfold had two bloody spots where the eyes should be. He was standing at the far back of the line, directly in front of the guard, who kept a hand on his back.

There was a second guard, at the far front of the line, who led them by rope in the direction they needed to go.

The rope tugged right.

"A right turn..." the pink-haired prisoner thought.

As he came up on the turn, he made a move.

chink!

He struck the link between his cuffs on the corner of the wall to break them.

"What do you think you're doing?!" The guard pulled out a pistol.

pow!!