Shortest route

You grab the torch and the keys. You make it half way across the foyer before the lights flicker, then cut out. It’s abruptly dark, and you stumble. You flick the torch on and keep running. There’s a sound like a gunshot that makes you flinch, the wave hits your legs, scything them out from underneath you. The torch is torn from your grip, and you slam into something sharp and heavy behind you.

It’s the reception desk, which isn’t anchored to the floor in any sort of way. Everything is moving, becoming jumbled and tangled. You flail uselessly, winded, in pain, but shapes are piling up around you, pummelling you and confusing you.

Your head goes underwater. Now dazed and disorientated, you try to find the floor – it’s not like you’re out of your depth – but other things are falling on you from above, pinning you down. There’s nothing you can do in this dark chaos. You’re not even sure which way is up, and your struggles grow slowly weaker until they cease altogether.

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