"Is there anything I have to do with this?" You hope not.
"Yes! You may have a den of narrative trilobites hiding around here."
"A what now?"
"Trilobites tell good stories. Fiendishly good stories. They wriggle in and make sure they are never found. Unless it's in a plot twist because those are cool and make people go 'oh wow I never imagined the prime minister of the police department general was the trilobite.' Is that how prime ministers work? I don't know. But yes they could be hiding here."
"And… You can tell?"
"They smell a lot."
"What's the smell?"
"An evil, fashionable one stolen from human people in cold blood."
"Which is?"
"Prada."
You eye the former doorway. Nobody has gone by or come in, and no alarms blare. Too quiet for what you imagine to be a containment breach. You first hoped someone would come by and rescue you, but at this point your only hope in making it out of here is to roll with the punches. Especially considering how keen the anomalocaris is in blowing things up. The path to the doorway is clear, though. If you sprint you could make it.
"So do you want the checkup?"