It being a Saturday night, Myra passed plenty of drunken pedestrians on her way to the convenience store. When she heard a loud male hollering from a group of passers-by she rolled her eyed and continued forward. Only when a hand landed on her arm and gripped her tightly did she look up at the intoxicated fools.
“Hey, I was talking to you,” the stranger holding her said in frustration. “What’s with you women acting like you’re all that?”

Myra glared at the man in front of her and sharply pulled her arm out of his grip. She remained silent and attempted to walk past him when one of the man’s three friend stopped her from leaving.
“That’s rude,” he growled, his face disturbingly close to hers as he deliberately invaded her personal space.

“My buddy here,” he continued, “was paying you a compliment and you try and run away when he calls you out for being a ? ing typical.” The man, whose breathe reeked of alcohol, pushed Myra backward to where her first accoster caught her and kept his arms around her.

Myra squirmed, panicked by her inability to escape his hold. She still did not deem the goons with any response, but the lump forming in seemed like it would make talking a difficulty anyway. The large hands she could feel on her body roamed wherever they pleased, travelled up toward her chest.

Then they were gone.

The girl spun around and saw the man several metres away, lying on the ground. She watched him rise and look at her as if she were some kind of demon. His eyes were locked onto hers, wide and unblinking. His jaw clenched and unclenched repeatedly. Then he clumsily listed himself up and ran down the street at a pace she could probably call “as fast as he could”.

Myra turned back to the three other young men. They raised their hands and backed away, looking almost as shocke