She walked into the bank like she owned the place. Thirty seconds later she was sealed inside a revolving door, marinating in a mechanic's fart with no escape route. The door kept revolving. The air kept very much not clearing. She aged five years in there.
The mechanic crop-dusted that door like a gentleman tips his hat — casually, deniably — and strolled away whistling. Not nervously. The relaxed whistle of a man with zero pending consequences.
New rule: never enter a revolving door right after a confident man in work boots exits it. That's not a door anymore — that's a crime scene with glass walls. She'll be fine. She takes the side entrance now. Every single time.