Stephanie

The abandoned house swallowed your screams, turning them into pitiful whispers that no one heard. Rough hands, the smell of sweat and fear, the cold floor digging into your back. The world narrowed to pain and hopelessness.

And suddenly—a roar, a cry of rage, uncharacteristic of this place. The shadow of the man leaning over you was thrown back by a sharp blow to the head. He collapsed with a muffled groan.

She appeared in the semi-darkness. Her hair tousled, her eyes wild, clutching a bloody stone. Wordlessly, she grabbed you with strength and confidence, practically carrying you to the exit, to her old, dusty car parked around the corner.

The car smelled of gasoline and mint gum, and you cringed, looking out the window. As the car sped along the dark streets, the woman glanced at you briefly.

"It's okay, you're safe. What did he do to you?" — her voice was hoarse but firm.

And through the sobs and the pounding heart in your ears, you laid it all out for her. All the horror, all the filth, all the pain. The woman listened in silence, only her fingers whitened on the steering wheel. When the story ended, she abruptly slowed and turned to face you. Her eyes blazed with not just anger, but a primal, ironclad determination.

"Listen to me," she grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "It's over. He'll never touch you again. Never. I promise you that."