ATTACK.
The minotaur had ripped through the first floor of the museum. He didn't know what he was looking for--or if he was looking for anything. But every person he saw filled him with indescribable rage, and the smell of blood was making him crazy. He swiped away a man running in the opposite direction past his legs; his hands crunched around a woman's leg as she tried to slide by against the wall. When he made his halting way upstairs, followed and preceded by screams, another few men got in his way. Swinging his head from side to side, he went first one way, and then the other, chasing a woman who shrieked and screamed and darted just out of his reach. He couldn't concentrate with all these--these things in the way, these stands and tables and lights. Reaching out a hairy arm, he shoved a moving guitar exhibit roughly to the side--and exposed a girl's hiding place.