Shaky inhale after shaky exhale, you slipped around the corner of the warehouse, gun pointed low as your eyes darted around the facility, wincing as your footsteps reverberated loudly through the open space. You flexed your fingers around the grip of your pistol, sweat making it slick and slippery as you jumped at every fleeting noise: the gentle whir of the generators, the rotating turbines in each metal tube lining the roof; the brush of your clothing with each act of measured motion, back pressed against walls and shelving units as you appraised the way forwards; the subtle click of your gun as your fingers strained hesitantly against the trigger, prepared to shoot at anything that moved. This was dangerous. You knew that. And yet, against your commanding officer’s orders, here you were. A mere investigator, running around the suspected base of operations for a mafia undertaking that you discovered in the first place, armed only with a standard issue pistol and your withering confidence. There were so many ways this could go wrong - and you froze as you felt your plan fall apart. You heard the cock of a gun. A gun that wasn’t yours.

“Hands up, doll face. I’m afraid your little escapade ends here.”

Stilling, you slowly raised your hands, trying in vain to keep the shaking from your limbs as you fought the urge to turn around. You held onto your gun, afraid to lose your only means of protection.

“Turn around, nice and slow - no sudden movements, yeah? And then you can slide that gun over to me and we can have a lovely conversation about your line of work, detective - how does that sound?”