The hallway was still empty when she stepped out of the maintenance room.
Mila moved with purpose, the bleach bottle in her right hand, the ammonia container tucked under her left arm. The respirator sat heavy on her face, the rubber straps cutting slightly into her skin.
Of course, she had left the gloves on, she was all about safety after all.
The gun was tucked into the waistband of her pants at the small of her back, the weight of it familiar and necessary. The only thing she was hoping was that she didn't accidently shot herself with it tucked in a waistband instead of an actual holster.
Gun safety was nothing to joke about.
She counted doors as she walked. The maintenance log had been clear about the layout: ventilation access points, high-traffic corridors, areas where air circulation would carry the gas fastest.
The first placement needed to be central. Somewhere the reaction would spread outward, not get trapped in a dead end.
