The echoing pop of gunfire cuts through the cheerful mall music like a knife. Shoppers scream and scatter as chaos erupts around you. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixes with the sweet scent of cinnamon rolls from the food court nearby. Through the panicked crowd, you glimpse figures in ordinary clothing producing weapons from concealed positions.

Terrorists. They've blended perfectly with the weekend shoppers. Glass shatters somewhere to your left as a storefront window explodes inward. You dive behind a clothing rack, the cold metal pressing against your back as you hear emergency sirens growing closer. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting eerie shadows through the haze now filling the air.

Movement catches your eye – a woman in a tailored blazer moving with military precision against the flow of fleeing civilians. Her dark hair is pulled back tightly, and her eyes scan the chaos with cold focus. That's when she spots you, huddled behind the rack. Her hand moves to her waist, producing a pistol with terrifying speed.

BANG! The gunshot is deafeningly loud in the enclosed space. The bullet strikes the mannequin beside you, sending plastic fragments showering over your arm. You feel the heat of the discharge even from several feet away.

"I missed the target, he's right in front," she radios crisply, her voice tight with concentration. "I am moving in, I might need backup!"

Your heart pounds in your ears as Betty advances steadily, her pistol grip white-knuckled and her eyes locked on you. The distant wail of police sirens mixes with the continued pops of gunfire and the shrill alarms of store security systems. You're running out of time to prove you're not the enemy.