Wolf's claim

I’m running. My lungs burn, my legs ache, but I can’t stop. Two men are behind me — their footsteps thunder against the pavement, closing in fast. My heart pounds so violently it feels like it might rip through my chest. They’re gaining on me. I stumble, breath ragged, and just as I’m about to hit the ground, a figure appears out of nowhere. A tall man. Broad shoulders. Calm eyes shinning like amber. His hand shoots out, steadying me before I fall. The men chasing me skid to a stop a few feet away. “Leave her alone,” one of them growls. The stranger’s grip tightens slightly, his voice cool and firm. “And why should I?” “She’s ours.” He meets their glare without flinching. “No… she’s mine.” Before I can react, they both lunge. Hands tug at me from every side — I’m being dragged, torn between them, until everything dissolves into chaos— I jolt awake, gasping. My sheets are soaked with sweat, my pulse racing as though I’ve been running for real. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. My room. Four pale walls. Safety… or something like it. The glowing digits on the wall clock read 4:30 a.m. No chance of sleeping again. I lie back, staring at the ceiling, the echo of that voice still in my ears — No… she’s mine. Who was he? A stranger? A savior? Dreams don’t feel that real. I press a hand over my chest, steadying my breath. All my life, I’ve had no one to protect me. I’ve been bruised, broken, betrayed — and learned to fight alone. Independence isn’t a choice anymore; it’s survival. But that dream… it felt different. Too vivid. Too alive. The first birds begin to chirp outside. Enough lying around. I swing my legs off the bed and force myself up. By six, I’m dressed and ready, the chill of dawn brushing against my skin as I step out. My uniform is neatly pressed, my hair tied back. At least I can control this part of my life — being early, being reliable, being strong. The supermarket doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and I walk in, ready to face another day behind the counter. Whatever that dream meant, I tell myself it’s just that — a dream. But somewhere deep inside, I’m not sure I believe it. “You’re early today, Helena,” Esther says, balancing a pile of receipts in her hand as I walk into the staff room. “Some days…” I reply with a small shrug, hanging my bag in the locker. Some days I just can’t stay in bed. Especially after that dream. I slip into my uniform — black trousers, crisp white shirt, the Kingsway Mall logo stitched neatly on the pocket — and make my way to the counter. The mall hums with its usual morning buzz: the squeak of shoes, carts rattling, chatter echoing off the glass walls. Mr. Joe, our supervisor, is already striding around with his clipboard like a general preparing for battle. “Inventory, people! Don’t miss a single item!” he barks, though no one’s really listening. The first rush begins. Customers pour in — indecisive shoppers pacing between shelves, kids crying for candy, couples arguing over cereal brands. My hands move automatically: scan, beep, pack, smile. But my mind isn’t here. It keeps drifting back to the dream. The man’s voice. His hand holding me steady. The way he said, No… she’s mine. Who was he? Why does it feel like I’ve met him before? “Next, please!” I call, forcing a smile. The hours blur together — until chaos erupts. A woman bursts through the entrance, heels clicking like gunfire. I recognize her instantly: Miss Always-In-A-Hurry. She sweeps through the aisles, grabs a can of milk and a tin of sandwich spread, then speeds toward the counter. Esther’s still busy, so she darts to my line — just as another customer approaches. They collide. Groceries scatter everywhere — coffee packs, biscuits, detergent — rolling across the polished floor. “I’m so sorry!” Miss Hurry gasps, though she doesn’t bend to help. The other woman’s face flushes red. She grabs her by the arm. “You think an apology fixes this? Look what you’ve done!” “I said I’m sorry! What else do you want?” Miss Hurry snaps, jerking free. “Pick. Them. Up.” The tension crackles in the air. People are staring, whispering. Mr. Joe starts heading our way — but before he can reach them, the door slides open again. A man steps in. Tall. Confident. Dark jacket. And my heart stops. It’s him. The man from my dream. For a moment, everything fades — the noise, the argument, even my own breath. He moves with unhurried grace through the aisles, selecting a few items, unaware of the storm building inside me. By the time he reaches my counter, my pulse is pounding. Esther’s free now, yet somehow he walks straight to me. “Hi,” he says, his voice low, steady. He sets his items on the counter, amber- like eyes fixed on mine. I swallow hard. “Hi…” “You look familiar,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “Have we met somewhere?” His lips curl into a faint smile. “Maybe. Though a face as pretty as yours would be hard to forget if we had.” I feel heat rush to my cheeks. Our fingers brush as he hands me his card, and a spark shoots straight up my spine. I pull my hand back quickly, pretending to focus on the register. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. He collects his bag, turns to leave, then pauses at the revolving door. For a heartbeat, he glances back — and our eyes meet. That same electric shiver runs through me again. It’s him. The man from my dream. And somehow, deep down, I know this won’t be the last time I see him.