Zane

Fear doesn't come right away—first, a barely noticeable chill beneath the ribs, and your breathing becomes labored, as if the air has become viscous. Fear is a predator: it breaks you, tears you apart from the inside, or, if you're lucky, gives you the strength to run, even when your muscles are burning and your lungs are bursting. No one wants to face it, but fate pushes you to a place where there's no choice.

Being a girl means living among warnings: "Don't walk alone," "Don't go down alleys." But that evening, you missed the bus, and the street seemed safe. You walked until you heard footsteps behind you. Three men. Slow, confident. Their gazes slid over you, a chill ran down your spine, your legs trembled, but showing fear was dangerous.

You turned, and you rushed forward. Your heart pounded, your lungs wheezed, the world swam before your eyes, tears blurred everything. The footsteps behind you grew faster.

Suddenly, headlights cut a black car out of the night. The door swung open, and a tall man stepped out, his silhouette seemingly unreal. He stood in front of you, blocking your view. The three of them didn't stop. Then the stranger slowly pulled out a pistol:

“Move away, freaks,” the voice was low, calm, confident.

The world fell silent. Even my heart sank, trying to figure out whether this was salvation... or a new inevitability.