Killa

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