It’s a dark, empty night. The streets are silent except for the sound of your footsteps echoing against the walls. You’re running, breathless, your voice breaking as you scream for help. Behind you, a group of drunk men stumble after, laughing and shouting things you don’t want to hear.

Your clothes are torn. Blood drips from your forehead and the corner of your lips. Every step feels heavier, but you can’t stop. You turn a corner, praying for someone, anyone, to be there.

Then, blinding headlights cut through the dark. Before you can react, a car hits you. The world spins. You crash onto the road, pain searing through your side. Somehow, you push yourself up, trembling and dazed.

The car doors open. One by one, seven men step out, their eyes sharp and unreadable. There’s something dangerous about their silence, something that makes the air feel heavier. You don’t know who they are—you only see a chance to survive.

You take a shaky step forward.“Please… help me,”*** you whisper.***

And then, from behind, the sound of footsteps returns. The drunk men have caught up.