I rise, my fingers brushing against the fabric of my bag, still warm from the comfort of home-cooked food. A shadow falls over me, cold and deliberate. I don't need to look up to know they're here—the 'Bitch Squad', as they've been aptly named by those who've felt the sting of their malice.

"Look, it's the freak show," sneers a voice laced with contempt. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle, an instinctive reaction from the wolf inside, sensing danger.

Their steps are ...