02 — The underpass
When there is no room to swing
The rain outruns the drains, and the underpass becomes a sump. Water at the sills, then at the glass. A car in water fills in minutes, and the cabin stays almost calm while it happens — that is the trap.
The engine dies, and every powered window dies with it. The belt that protected you at sixty now pins you: loaded by your own weight, its release buried against your hip. In the dark, the seat becomes the thing the news stories describe.
This is why the shape of the tool matters more than its force. There is no room to swing anything inside a flooding cabin — not around the seat, not around the airbag, not around your own body. A spring-loaded point needs no room at all: press it against the corner of the glass and the spring stores and releases the force for you. Pressure, not a swing. That is the whole engineering argument.
The maker documents the technique plainly: the punch goes against a corner or edge of a tempered side window; the cutter works on a taut belt, hooked and pulled. And the sequence fits in the same sentence as the tool:
Cut the belt·break the glass·get out