In a quiet village not far from the town lived Lamya and her father. Her mother had died when she was only six years old, and ever since then, her father had nurtured and cared for her. Although their circumstances were difficult, they managed to get by on their own and remained strong.
Little by little, everything became normal. Lamya grew up, completed her schooling, and eventually started going to college.
She was, by far, one of the most talented and hardworking girls in her college. Her teachers admired her dedication, and her friends often looked up to her. She had dreams of building a successful career and giving her father the comfortable life he had always deserved.
And everything was going well.
Until one evening, when everything changed.
The cold night air bit into Lamya's skin as she hurried down the empty street, her arms wrapped tightly around herself for warmth. Shadows stretched ominously between the spaced streetlights, grasping at her with invisible hands. Her shoes clicked sharply against the pavement, the relentless sound of her escape echoing in the silence.
She fought to push the memories away, to ignore the panic clutching at her throat. But every crack in the sidewalk, every trash can lining the path, only brought her mind spiraling back to that night.
Back to when his breath had stunk of alcohol as he pinned her wrists above her head, grinning as she screamed and kicked helplessly beneath him.
A year had passed since then, but the bruises on her body had long faded while those on her soul only festered deeper.
She had sat through the trial, clinging to the shred of hope that her testimony would see justice served. But the defence attorney had painted her as a drunk, an obsessed woman regretting a meaningless encounter. Her character had been questioned, her words twisted, and her dignity dragged through the mud.
The court had eventually acquitted her attacker.
Lamya had waited outside the courthouse that day, numbly watching him smile and greet his friends as though he hadn't ruined a life. As though he wasn't a monster who would strike again given the chance.
But the system had declared him innocent, and she was powerless to change that.
Her father had tried everything he could to comfort her. He reminded her that she had done nothing wrong, that she had nothing to be ashamed of, and that one day she would be able to move forward.
But how could she?
The world had already passed its judgement.
She had buried herself in her studies, hoping that perhaps time could heal what the law had broken.
Tonight was meant to be the start of her new life. Graduation was tomorrow, and she was on her way to celebrate with friends. Yet, with each step, the memories intensified, refusing to leave her be.
Her breathing became faster, shallow and ragged, as panic threatened to overwhelm her.
She stopped, leaning against a nearby wall for support as dizziness swept over her.
A choked sob escaped her lips.
She clenched her eyes shut, willing herself to regain control before someone saw her weakness.
But then, a noise in the distance pierced through the haze of her turmoil.
The unmistakable sound of a woman crying out for help.
Lamya's head snapped towards the noise.
Down a side street, barely visible from the main road, two figures were entangled in the shadows. One struggled violently against the other, her pleas dissolving into incoherent screams.
His laughter echoed back, a cold cackle that crawled over Lamya's skin.
Without thinking, she ran towards them.
As she drew nearer, the man came into view. His large frame held the smaller woman against the brick wall, one hand covering her mouth to muffle her screams. With the other, he struggled to tear at her clothes, oblivious to anything but his depraved desires.
"Hey! Leave her alone!" Lamya shouted, her voice raw with rage.
He turned, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused.
Recognition flashed across his face.
He had been at the courthouse a year earlier. One of the men who had supported her attacker and intimidated her throughout the trial.
The sight of him sent Lamya careening over the edge, any remaining traces of control obliterated.
With a roar, she launched herself at him.
Her fists collided with his face again and again as months of pent-up pain and fury erupted in a barrage of strikes. He reeled backwards, releasing the other woman, who collapsed to the ground sobbing.
But Lamya didn't stop.
She couldn't stop.
She grabbed him by the collar and struck him again. The man stumbled, lost his balance, and fell backwards, his head colliding violently with the pavement.
"How does it feel, you bastard? How do you like being helpless?!" she screamed.
His body lay motionless.
Lamya stared down at him, heaving for breath as rage still boiled in her veins. Her knuckles burned and ached, but she felt no pain, only a strange, savage satisfaction at the sight of his broken form.
This was what she had dreamed of for so long.
Retribution.
The justice that had been denied to her had finally been delivered, if only for an instant.
Slowly, the adrenaline began to fade, and clarity returned.
Lamya looked around in dawning horror, taking in the scene: the woman curled into a ball, crying; the blood; and the unmoving figure at her feet.
"Oh God, what have I done?" she whispered.
She dropped to her knees and fumbled to check for a pulse with trembling fingers.
For a terrible moment, she found none.
Then, beneath his collar, she detected the faintest beat.
Alive, but barely.
She rose unsteadily to her feet, her eyes drawn back to the cowering woman against the wall.
"I'm sorry," Lamya said quietly. "But I have to go. Please... tell them it was self-defence."
The woman looked at her, unable to respond.
Lamya hesitated for a moment before turning away.
Then she fled into the night.
The aftermath was a blur.
She washed the blood from her hands under scalding water, scrubbing until her skin burned. She stared at her reflection, unable to recognize the woman looking back at her.
Collapsing into bed, Lamya's dreams were plagued by flashes of violence: her own assault, tonight's attack, and the grisly scene playing on repeat until dawn.
When light filtered through her window, she woke in a cold sweat.
Her phone was filled with missed calls and messages from frightened friends.
The news was already spreading.
An attempted assault near her neighborhood had escalated into a brutal confrontation, leaving a man hospitalized in critical condition. Witnesses described a female assailant, but no other useful details had emerged.
Lamya switched on the television with dread, half-expecting to see her own face displayed as the prime suspect.
Instead, she found Inspector Adrian Smith's stern visage addressing the press.
His expression revealed little, but his eyes conveyed an intensity that pierced through the screen.
"We have reason to believe this was not a random incident of violence," he said evenly. "We are investigating the circumstances surrounding the attack. I promise the citizens of this city that we will find whoever is responsible and establish the truth of what really happened last night."
The brief statement chilled Lamya to the core.
She knew this was no ordinary case for the police.
It was a crime scene, and she was the perpetrator.
In a few chaotic minutes, everything had changed. Her new beginning lay in shattered pieces while the possibility of arrest and punishment seemed to bear down upon her from all sides.
But wasn't this what she had wanted all along?
Hadn't she dreamed of inflicting the same pain and helplessness that her attacker had made her feel that night?
A familiar darkness stirred inside her, unfurling its wings in promise of something new.
Something that could quench the fires of vengeance burning in her soul.
Lamya switched off the television and stood, squaring her shoulders with steely determination.
Inspector Adrian Smith might be an expert at solving mysteries, but this was one he would never crack.
She had evaded the law's grasp before, and she would do it again.
Because now, the hunt had only just begun.
The real retribution was only getting started.