In a dimly lit chamber, the ceiling creaked and began to descend—slowly, inch by ominous inch.

  The team was trapped. Panic flickered in their eyes like dying flashlights.

  “What do we do, M?” a young woman asked, her voice cracking.

  McGyver, the legend of last-minute saves, furrowed his brow. He scanned the room. His eyes locked on the girl's backpack.

  “Quick,” he barked. “I need some lotion, a picture of Johnson’s wife, and three minutes of privacy.”

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  There was a beat of stunned silence.

  Then chaos.

  Someone tossed him a bottle. Another, trembling, rifled through Johnson’s wallet and handed over the photo. McGyver snatched the items and vanished into a shadowy corner.

  The ceiling groaned lower.

  Three minutes dragged by like a funeral march. No sounds but the grind of doom and... muffled effort.

  Then McGyver stepped out, wiping his hands on his pants. “All right. We’re good.”

  The team stared, breath held, waiting for brilliance.

  “Well hey now—just what the fuck were you doing with my wife’s photo?!” Johnson barked.

  But it didn’t matter.

  The ceiling slammed down.

  Silence. Total.

  Only one thing lingered in the air: the echo of McGyver’s final words, floating like a cruel joke.