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The Hideaway

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Back in the basement floor of a chapel, where parishioners often surrendered themselves to a kind of devotion that smelled more of sweat than incense, Mack had stumbled onto the perfect hideaway. A place quiet enough to stash the little “offerings” she’d been gathering along the way.

She was rather pleased with herself for sneaking past the security guard, who’d given her the faintest nod, as if she were someone familiar. Then again, his cap sagged so low it nearly kissed his nose. Hard to tell if he was being polite or just asleep on the job.

Either way, the place promised more than met the eye. Hidden among its secrets was a book, dressed to look like something solemn, though inside its pages contained meticulous blueprints; floor plans, blind spots, routes timed to the second, and other sensitive notes.



Mack treated it like a silent mentor, spending nights tracing its margins and committing every detail to memory. If the sermons upstairs sold salvation, these pages offered something far more useful: a way in and a way out.

And that gave her the courage she’d been waiting for. Restlessness clawed at her, turning into boldness by the minute. Inside, a quiet rage grew fueled by a system that mocked her existence, laying out paths it never meant her to finish. A world that praised virtue while excusing its own vices, that crowned the powerful for their excess and condemned the small for their survival.

The law was written by those in power, gilded in words of order and justice. But it could be carried out just as well by those who dared to claim it for themselves. Mack had no illusions about fairness. To her, every diagram in that book was more than a plan. It was a way to flip the script, to become the one who decided how the rules will be carried out.