Nancy brushed a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear and took a deep breath. The sun glared off the metal sign in front of the factory building: Craven Textiles: Durable Garments for Specialized Use.
She double-checked the address. Yup, this was the place. The job ad said “Full-time, no experience required, good pay.” After months of job hunting, Nancy didn’t care what kind of jackets they made—leather, denim, polyester—she just needed work.
The inside of the building was cold and humming with the sound of machines. A woman with a clipboard greeted her. “Nancy, right? Follow me.”
She was led past looming sewing machines and silent workers who didn’t glance up. Oddly, there was no denim or cotton in sight—just heavy canvas, thick belts, and polished buckles.
The woman stopped in front of a steel door. “Here’s the deal,” she said, monotone. “This isn’t a normal interview.”
Nancy blinked. “Okay…?”
“We make institutional restraint jackets. Straightjackets, specifically. The real kind, used in facilities around the world. We only hire people who understand what our products do—and can think like someone trying to get out of one.”
Nancy stared at her. “You’re serious?”
The woman nodded. “Standard protocol. You agree to be locked in one of our low-grade models, in a safe padded room. If you can get out within three days, you get the job. Most don’t.”
Nancy laughed—nervously. “So… it’s like an escape room, but with more hugging?”
“No. It’s like prison, but you volunteered.”
She hesitated. Rent was due in a week. “Okay,” Nancy said. “Let’s do it.”
They strapped her in. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, laced through the back, buckles yanked until her ribs groaned. The moment the padded door sealed shut behind her, panic swelled in her throat like bile. Her arms were trapped. Her fingers ached. Every movement was resisted by canvas and leather.
The first hours were spent thrashing. That didn’t work.
Then came pacing in circles, falling, rolling. Sweat soaked her shirt. Her blonde hair matted to her face. She shouted once or twice, but no one came.
By the second day, her mind sharpened. She started feeling the pressure points. The way the strap twisted when she moved her shoulder just so. Her teeth tugged at one of the looser edges. Her feet scraped at the wall to get leverage. Her wrists bruised. Her breathing slowed.
She counted her breaths. One. Two. Twist. Shift. Pull. Rest.
By the third morning, the right seam was fraying. She found it by accident—some minor flaw in the stitching. She bit it, rubbed it against the padded corner of the room until her gums bled. When the arm strap finally tore open, it felt like being reborn.
Her left hand wrenched free, then her right. The back straps were trickier, but by then, she was a woman possessed.
When the door creaked open on the morning of Day Three, Nancy stood in the middle of the room. The jacket hung off one shoulder, limp, ruined. Her face was pale, but calm.
A man in a lab coat clapped twice. “Congratulations. You passed.”
Nancy coughed, then smirked. “How many people make it?”
“One in fifty.”
She raised a brow. “So I broke your super-jacket.”
He chuckled. “Not quite. That was Easy Mode. A defective prototype. Had to see if you had the mindset. Real ones don’t tear.”
Nancy stared at him. “So… you tricked me?”
“We tested you. And you passed. Welcome to Craven Textiles.”
She wiped blood from her lip and grinned, eyes blazing. “Great. When do I start?”
