I’m escorted down the hall and to the left.
There’s office workers pacing the halls and a kind elderly receptionist who looks at me being held against my will in handcuffs. We exchange friendly glances before she gasps at the realization of my current predicament.
Yes, I could break these cuffs. But that would just cause a big fight and a lot of people would get hurt, and I would probably not escape alive except as a fugitive going into hiding the rest of my life. My goal to be productive with my existence would be spoiled forever.