Editing Hackforsatan19 (section)

===Go for help.===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=23BBC80A70B6602A1C1E179047E151BDF7591CE26A932667A4E674BE39D266C3 Link]
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You can do this. They'll understand. It wasn't your fault. You're sick. It might be blood. It's not blood. It's fine. You're fine. But what if it's blood? Just walk fast, don't say anything, grab your shit and go. Text Mitch when you get home. He'll understand.
He'll fire you.
He won't. You're sick, that's all.
You'll lose the account. He'll fire you.
But it's not your fault! 
So what? He doesn't give a fuck about you. He'll have a replacement by the end of the day. And she'll be prettier. Younger. Naive. Vulnerable. Put out or shut up. And the cycle continues. Forever. 
Deep breath. Fuck it.
You throw open the door and walk briskly down the hallway, head down, trying to be inconspicuous, trying not to make waves...
And there's Chuck.
"Holy sh... What happened to you?"
You keep your eyes on the floor. "I just need to go," you say. "Excuse me."
You try to walk past him but he grabs your shoulders in the worst possible way. 
"Are you okay? You look like...  blood..."
"Please just..." You push past him and duck into your cubicle. You grab your things, turn off your monitors, and he grabs you again. 
A) Keep your head down. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D5BF027AFB6C8D53E8A2F3055F39E0176C756E2D11A4B438DC6BD8AA94A10545
B) Be your best self. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=0EF4AF0AA752B5C172A1C13529ED5E761362D0A3548E99ACFA580B47CA108863
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====Keep your head down.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D5BF027AFB6C8D53E8A2F3055F39E0176C756E2D11A4B438DC6BD8AA94A10545 Link]
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"I'm sorry," you say, of course. "I just... Excuse me."
You manage to break away from his grip and half-run for the door.
You can hear him over your shoulder. "Ohhhkay whatever, bitch." 
Deep breath. Just keep walking. You throw open the front door and walk out into the street. You should be crying... You would be crying... Are you crying? They don't deserve that kind of satisf-- A horn blares and you jerk your head up just in time to see the oncoming car. "Oh, of fuckin' cour--"
https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861
(back to the start.)
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====Be your best self.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=0EF4AF0AA752B5C172A1C13529ED5E761362D0A3548E99ACFA580B47CA108863 Link]
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Your left hand reaches out reflexively. You're barely there at all. It grabs the 3-hole puncher off the desk. You're entirely here right now and you know it. You hold the puncher up like a club, spittle shooting from the corners of your mouth (red?) with every labored breath.
His smile abandons him there alone, stammering and grasping desperately for whatever words haven't already up and run off with his shriveling dick. "Wha... Hey! I was just being nice!" he says. "F-f-fuck you, bitch!" The fear dilates his titfucking eyes wide enough to drown an army. And you know what? You kinda like it.
You swing the puncher hard and crack him across the nose. He doubles over, hands over his face. "Fuck! Fuckin' bitch!"
You turn to run but immediately collide with Mitch's soft, shapeless chest. He grabs your shoulders, hard. Or at least as hard as he can... "What the hell is going on here??"
You don't even think about it. You don't have to. The 3-hole puncher in your right hand makes a gross cracking sound against his eye socket. He can barely utter a pathetic little "hrmph" when his knees give out and he crumples to the ground like a bitch.
The voice in the back of your head, the impulse, the instinct, you, YOU drop on top of him, straddling this weak, fragile, wretched excuse for a man, and raise the puncher high. He feebly attempts to shield himself with his stubby little hands, sobbing, whining, as you bring the puncher down and draw fresh blood. The sight of it gives you a strange, exciting, anxious feeling, radiating out from the pores in your scalp and the gums around your molars... Like the anticipation of a starving person about to take the first bite into a perfectly-cooked filet mignon. You toss the puncher aside and wrap your right hand around his throat.
"Stop!" says a voice behind you, trembling, weak.
You turn your head and see Winston from Inventory, 84 years old but too underpaid to retire, holding a tiny revolver in his quivering, liver-spotted hands. "Please..." he says. It's barely a whimper. "I don't want to... Please just... let him go..." It's sad, apologetic, kind. He's always been kind. You smile in red. 
A) Let go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17
B) Let Mitch go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659
(same as responses under Respond)
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