"Don't try to run."
But there's an opening, right there. Right there! It would be foolish not to try, with this person stalking towards them dressed in all black, face splattered with blood, hands holding a formidable weapon.
They dart away from the wall, into the open, and something whips across their shoulder in a sharp gash. Another piercing agony hits their leg as they twist with the momentum of the first hit, sending them crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and a spray of their own blood across the ground.
"See, now you've gone and made him angry."
The only visible assailant reaches them, a boot digs into their shoulder and flips them onto their back. Panting, holding the noises of pain back with everything they have, they freeze as the figure leans over them. The weapon he holds nudges their chin up until they lift up their head to meet the eyes they were so scared to see up close.
"I told you not to run, and it's really not me you should be worried about."
Eyes assess them; the damage, their cowering.
"If you want me to make sure he takes it easy on you, you'd better start begging."
They open their mouth, soundlessly, knowing they must look pathetic, terrified. The weapon forces their head back further, and nothing but a high pitched whine makes it out of their tight-closed throat.
"Better make it good," their attacker whispers.
[Follow up]
[Feel free to run with this trope and continue it, if you want to!]