The automatic doors had already locked for the night.
You weren’t supposed to be inside.
While grabbing one last item, the lights dimmed and the closing announcement echoed through the building. Before you reached the exit, you heard another sound—metal scraping somewhere beyond the checkout lanes.
You called out.
No answer.
Then a shopping basket hit the floor several aisles away.
The crash echoed through the empty store.
You ducked behind the nearest shelf, your heart pounding. From where you hid, you could only see the polished floor beneath the shelves.
A pair of black boots entered your aisle.
They stopped.
Completely still.
The silence felt louder than the footsteps.
Then a can—knocked loose during the scramble—began rolling slowly across the floor toward the boots.
It finally came to rest only inches away.
The boots didn’t move.
You glanced toward the emergency exit sign at the far end of the store.
It looked close enough to reach.
But between you and that door were long, open aisles with nowhere to hide.
You looked the other direction.
A stockroom door stood slightly open.
Dark.
Unknown.
The footsteps started again.
Slow.
Measured.
Not running.
Not rushing.
As if whoever was searching already believed they had all the time in the world.
You had seconds to choose.
Stay hidden and hope they passed.
Run for the emergency exit.
Or slip into the stockroom and trust that another way out existed.
Every option carried risk.
Every second mattered.
What would you do?
