(... but it was rolling around my head, and it feels like someone's done this before, but it was a light bit of fun)

Dusky light filtered through the half-broken blinds covering the loft's windows.  A few desks were arranged haphazardly throughout the floor, sparsely covered in clutter and junk, except for one, at which sat a man wearing wrinkled linen shirt and pants, typing at a keyboard, dividing his focus between a wide monitor and a portable device.  A framed picture of the man and a woman sat on the desk next to a trophy about the size of a grapefruit, shaped like a three-dimensional snowflake composed of swords.

A small window popped up on the monitor, which he scowled at, and dismissed it with a grunt.  After about twenty seconds, it returned.  He frowned and clicked a button in the window.  "Shit," he said with a weary resignation.  He grimaced and looked at the time.  He closed some of the windows on his monitor and focused on the remaining one, typing with more alacrity.  After less than a minute had passed, the pop-up turned red and emitted a short tone.  "Shit," he said more firmly, took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and ran his hand through what remained of his hair.

Before he could resume his work, another pop-up appeared, red and blinking, its alarm synchronized with its intermittence.  "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."  He committed the data in the final window and closed it, then ejected the portable from its dock.  He put it in his leather satchel, and from it withdrew a grenade.  He grabbed the pin, then said, "Shit," grabbed the picture frame instead and put it in the satchel, which he then threw around his shoulder.  Now he grabbed and pulled the pin, then dropped the grenade into the open drawer of the desk and closed it.

He turned and hurried around the corner to the stairs. Upon opening the door, he saw a woman, black hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a trench coat, turtleneck, tactical pants, and combat boots, all black.  She was looking at her handheld device and looked startled when she realized that the door had opened.  Then she glowered as she recognized him.  He also recognized her and cried, "Shit!"  He quickly turned around in a panic and started to run back the way he came.

She shook her head, put her handheld in her pocket, pulled a stun baton from her belt, and started following him at a walk.  She had yet to turn the corner when an explosion shook the office.  "Shit," she hissed, and started to jog, then came to a sudden stop as she found his corpse, the sword snowflake driven into his pterion.  She pinched the bridge of her nose, gritted her teeth, exhaled loudly, and said, "Shit."  She put her baton away and pulled out her handheld, tapped the screen a few times, and held it to her ear. 

On the twenty-eighth floor of a building in the financial district, a disheveled man wearing a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, an unbuttoned collar, and a loosened black necktie threw his handheld across his office, where it struck the window that faced the port district, and yelled, "SHIT!"  He stomped to the window to stare in the direction of the loft, almost as if he could change events by looking at them angrily.  Then he noticed that the handheld's impact had cracked the window.  That was going to be an expensive replacement.

"Shit."