The cold tiles of the modern kitchen floor pressed against Sarah's cheek as her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow gasps. Her eyes were wide with terror, fixed on the doorway leading to the dark hallway of her home.
Sarah: Leo... go to the panel... now.
Her voice was a barely audible, panicked whisper. Her small seven-year-old son, Leo, stood in the center of the kitchen, his tiny hands trembling violently.
Leo: Mommy, what's wrong with your leg?
Sarah: Don't look at me, Leo! Press the emergency code!
Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed down the hallway, fast and relentless. Mark was coming, his angry breathing growing louder with every step.
Leo: The numbers... I forgot the last one!
Sarah: Nine, Leo! Press nine and lock the inner doors!
Leo turned on his heel, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the polished floor as he sprinted toward the digital wall keypad mounted beside the pantry shelf. His fingers hovered over the glowing buttons.
Leo: Five... two... zero...
A shadow stretched long across the kitchen threshold. Mark charged into the doorway, his grey shirt dark with sweat and his eyes fixed on Sarah's helpless figure on the floor.
Mark: What are you doing, you little brat?!
Sarah: Leo, hurry!
Leo didn't press the last key. Instead, his eyes darted to the cleaning supply shelf beside the security panel. He grabbed two heavy metal aerosol cans, turning around just as Mark lunged toward his mother.
Mark: You think you can call for help in my house?!
Sarah: No! Leave him alone!
Sarah watched in absolute horror as the distance between her enraged husband and her small child closed in a fraction of a second, knowing she couldn't move her injured body in time to save him.