Run upstairs to the upper floors.
From Create Your Own Story
You turned in the direction of the flights leading up and sprinted, hiking up your skirt to allow your legs to stretch upward with minimal hindrance. You can see the floor numbers as you ascend: two, three...five, ten. Even though you're a good runner, sprinting up over ten flights of stairs is making you exhausted. You stop for a moment to pant for breath, your clothes and skirt sticky with sweat. Far below you, you can hear distant shouting and pursuing footsteps echoing in the staircase.
No time to rest now, you thought to yourself as you push your sore aching body up the stairs. Thirteen, fourteen...sixteen. Finally, you reach the twentieth floor with no more stairs going up and a single, metal door in front of you. This seems to be the top of the building. You turn your head down the flight of stairs and hear the faint, echoing shouting of men getting closer. Apparently they have already tracked down your escape route. You quickly push the door open and rush onto the rooftop. You look around to see that it is mostly bare except for a few potted plants and a bulky, metallic generator lazily humming away. There is nowhere to hide.
You hurry over to the edge of the rooftop and leaned over. About three hundred feet down below, you can see small dots of people moving in around on the concrete parking lot. The cars driving in and out of the lot appear as wounded-up toys.
"There she is!" You heard a man's husky voice not too far behind you. You turn to see three man in security uniform at the stairwell doorway, either bent over with their palms on their kneecaps panting hard, or leaning to the side gasping for air.
"We...got you now..." One large, round man managed to push out his words between deep breaths, his hair a sweaty mess and the front of his uniform covered with a large, dark sweat stain.
"Give...it up..." Another guard, a taller, lankier one with pale, sickly complexion struggled with his own declaration before letting loose a series of furious coughs.
The third guard, a short man with a receding hairline, doesn't say anything between his deep inhales, but instead clutches on to his chest while bent over with one finger pointed in your direction.
You see that these men are even more exhausted than you are. Even though they have you cornered, you wonder if you might have the upper hand.
