Use the nearby crate to cut herself loose

Velvet Vixen twists her wrists behind her as far as she can manage, her fingers scraping blindly across the splintered crate beside her.

There—rough wood. Sharp enough.

She breathes in through her nose, plants her boots firmly against the pallet base, and starts to move her arms in small, quick jerks. The coarse rope bites into her skin with every pull, but she doesn’t stop.

“Come on... come on...”

Above her, the rope holding the crates gives another haunting groan. Dust rains down. One of the boxes shifts.

“No pressure,” she mutters.

She keeps sawing. One fiber snaps. Then another. Her arms ache. Her gloves are sticky with sweat. Her wrists sting from the friction.

But the ropes grow looser—just enough.

Snap!

Suddenly her right wrist slips free. She nearly yells in surprise, but bites it back. Her left hand follows a moment later. She immediately brings her arms forward, frantically clawing at the ropes pinning her waist and legs.

“Come on, Vixen, work those puzzle-solving fingers.”

The final knot around her thighs gives way just as another ominous POP sounds above. The pulley holding the crate stack gives a violent twitch, and the entire wooden tower leans forward slightly.

“Nope. No thank you!”

She throws herself off the pallet with a wild, gasping yell and rolls just as the frayed rope snaps above.

CRAAAAAAASH!!!

Crates thunder to the ground right where she was standing. Wood shatters. Debris flies. A cloud of dust floods the warehouse air.

Velvet Vixen coughs, crawling out from behind a fallen beam, bruised but alive.

“Told you,” she pants, “you can’t keep the Vixen down.”

She staggers to her feet, brushing dirt and rope strands from her outfit. Her corset is scuffed. Her mask askew. Her cape somehow still intact.

“Cleo, honey,” she mutters, “you’re gonna need a new trap. And maybe a new plan.”