The door in front of you produces an audible click just before you pull on the handle. As you vaguely suspected, the door does not give way to your tugs.
You turn back to the lobby. The secretary that greeted you is nowhere to be seen – likely hiding under her desk or maybe gone from the building altogether.
The security guard is a different story: he’s unseated himself from his comfortable office chair and stares coldly at you from just in front of the doors you entered through. His figure stands in stark contrast to the bright sunlight which pours in through the tintless glass of the front windows: slightly chubby, but clearly heavily muscled, his is the physique of a man who has not seen a fight in a long time, but has not forgotten the sting of a punch on his skin or burn of a bullet in his flesh.
“They’re on their way, girl,” says the guard, “…the police I mean. It won’t be long.” Though his voice is firm and steady, you can see, even at this distance, that his hands are trembling.
“You mean we’ve got some time alone together, handsome?” you ask coyly.
“That’s right, I’ve hit the mantrap,” the guard explains. “It’s just you and me in the lobby. My hands and yours. My gun and…whatever you’ve managed to sneak through the metal detector. I’ve been around long enough to spot a killer when I see one, young lady, and I spot one in you. But you should know before we start I’ve put a couple to rest, too.” His words have a sense of finality in them, a note of acceptance, but also a tinge of courage – a taint of fight. This is a man who is not afraid to die, yet has something to live for.
You take no pleasure in killing him.