Killa

You enter from one side. The door behind you closes with a dull thud. You take three steps—your sole crunches on the glass. At the end of the corridor is a figure.
He's already there. Standing. Not moving. Not breathing, it seems. The red light flickers, and each time it flashes, you see him more clearly: the heavy helmet with the visor down, the armor, the barrel pointed at the floor.
He didn't raise the weapon. He was already holding it.
You freeze. He does too. A twenty-meter-long corridor turns into a second stretched out into eternity.
He takes a step to the left. Smoothly. Presses his back against the wall. Now he half-turns. The barrel rises slightly—now it's pointing at your solar plexus.
Not a threat. An assessment.