Your knees slam into the linoleum as the bullet burns a hole through your side. Through gritted teeth you pull the trigger, the last enemy falling. Your fingers brush the wet wound. The bullet had missed your vest and bore all the way through your skin. You hear boot steps and point your pistol at the door.

Your gun clicks, empty.

“So you’re the little thorn in my side.” Your target purrs, stepping out of the office.