The shop’s proprietor was in the midst of a battle against flies. Estelle replenished her bag with bread and energy bars, topping off her supplies with a bottle of soda.

As she browsed the aisles, a group of men approached a table where a solo young lady sat. They encircled her, their words a jumble of another language and gibberish.

“Hi, beautygirl.”

“Hey there, where you off to?”

“Looking for a place to stay?”

“Can I love you?”

Their eyes were fixed on the girl, their sneers dripping with malice. Startled, the girl stood up, clutching her purse, and hurried toward the exit.

The men were quick to follow, once again enclosing her, escalating from catcalls to unwanted touches.

Waving her purse frantically, the girl shouted,

know

will be here

going to

the men groped her, eliciting a piercing scream as

like cats with a mouse,

toward a parked Rolls-Royce Cullinan, pounding on the

eyes. Awakened by the rapping on the glass,

savior in the man with the car, the girl dashed back toward the store, seeking refuge with the indifferent store owner. Such incidents were all too common in a place like Citadel, and the owner

on her, their hands reaching for

“Don’t touch me.”

“Please, let me go.”

give you all my money, just let

a panic, the girl grabbed a leftover food tray from a table and smashed it into one of their faces, food and sauce splattering. The man wiped his face clean, revealing a sinister scowl before slapping

as they

punch to her face

in hand, witnessed the scene. She paused, took a swig of her drink, and followed them

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