Her legs are stretched out on the bed, her back against the light yellow wall. Her fingers are tapping on the keyboard of the laptop in her knee. Small pearls of sweat are forming around her forehead since the fan in the corner stopped working. She's wearing a grey, washed-out, men's t-shirt with a few holes in it, and black cotton panties. There is a knock on the door. She gives no reaction. Keeps typing. Another knock. She stops typing, closes her eyes, cracks her neck. She reaches under the bed and removes the small knife fastened to the bottom of the mattress. A third knock.

- Come in.

 

The door is locked, but gets kicked in. She throws the knife. It flies across the room faster than the words "you are under arrest" form in his mouth, and stop them in his throat. He falls to the floor, chokes on the blood coming up, then lies still. She picks up the phone by the bedside.

- Roomservice, please.