John surveyed the agents who had commandeered his living room, systematically transforming his tranquil sanctuary into a makeshift field office. Could they genuinely see him as a threat? He was innocent. Surely they realized that? His eyes strayed to the wall clock. The hands, stubbornly moving forward, each tick amplified in the tense silence, served as a stark reminder of his dwindling control over time. Every passing minute, each resonating tick, dragged him away from the serenity of his retirement and into the heart of this puzzling predicament. He had to escape, and fast!
As he was mustering the courage to flee, Agent Smith strode purposefully towards him. A stern look marked the agent’s countenance, boding ill for John. “This is it,” John resigned himself, the agent’s intense gaze filling him with dread. “Mr. Baxter,” Agent Smith began, his voice gravely serious, “we need you to come with us immediately.”