Rebels Vow

Echoes of Rebellion

Ophelia walked briskly down the empty street, the cold night air biting at her skin. The distant hum of life in the Wall Sina district felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Here, the streets were quieter, almost eerie, save for the occasional distant clatter of carts or the faint voices of people in their homes. Her breath came out in steady puffs, each one dissipating into the cold air. She hadn't been running for long—maybe fifteen minutes or so—but the familiar burn in her legs felt comforting. Running always helped clear her mind, always gave her a chance to focus. The rhythmic pounding of her feet against the pavement was like a heartbeat, a constant reminder that she was still alive, still moving forward. The streets felt like a safe distance from everything—the suffocating walls of the house, the weight of her father's anger, her mother's distance.But no matter how fast she ran, she couldn't outrun the feeling creeping at the back of her mind. The one that told her she wasn't strong enough yet. Not even close.  The echo of footsteps behind her broke her concentration. Ophelia's head snapped to the side, her muscles tensing instinctively. She didn't slow down—she never did when someone was following her—but her instincts kicked in, scanning the area around her. 

It was dark. Too dark. There weren't any street lamps in this part of town, only the flickering shadows cast by nearby homes. As she glanced back, her eyes caught the silhouettes of three men staggering toward her, moving erratically down the street. Their uneven steps and loud, slurred voices told her all she needed to know. She knew how to handle this. There was no need to panic, no need to let them catch her off guard. But her body still stiffened with an instinctual wariness. Men like this were unpredictable. Drunk men in these parts often thought they could get away with anything—and that was the last thing Ophelia needed right now. She didn't stop her run, though. If anything, she pushed herself harder, faster, praying they wouldn't get too close.

 But the sounds of their voices grew louder, and one of the men let out a laugh that echoed down the street, the kind of laugh that made the hair on the back of Ophelia's neck stand up.

"Oi! Where you think you're goin', little miss?" One of the men called out, his voice rough and hoarse. Ophelia didn't look back, but her fists instinctively clenched at her sides. "Move on," she called over her shoulder, her tone flat, hoping the sheer indifference would make them lose interest.

She could hear their footsteps quicken, then one of them shouted, "Come on, don't be like that, sweetheart. You runnin' from someone? Or you just like it when men chase ya?" 

Ophelia's jaw clenched as they drew closer. She could feel their presence now, their bodies coming into her peripheral vision. The sound of approaching footsteps suddenly matched her pace, getting closer. Ophelia's heart rate picked up, but she wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.Without warning, one of the men lunged forward, his arm reaching out to grab her shoulder. She reacted instinctively, took a step back just enough for him to miss his grab. She pivoted, swinging her elbow sharply back into his chest, the satisfying crunch of her knuckles hitting his ribs cutting through the silence of the night. The man grunted in pain and staggered back, but before he could fully recover, Ophelia was already in motion again. The second man, slightly faster than the first, lunged at her, but she side-stepped, grabbed the back of his jacket, and used his momentum to shove him into the nearest wall. He hit the concrete with a sickening thud, letting out a surprised yell as he crumpled to the ground.

In that moment, she felt a surge of adrenaline, her training taking over. But that surge was also tempered with cold calculation. She needed to get away from them. 

She grabbed his arm as he stumbled and used his own weight to throw him into a nearby barrel. He grunted as he crashed into it, and the sound of it echoed through the alleyway.

The last man was still trying to catch up, but Ophelia wasn't going to let him. She planted her feet firmly, bracing herself, and with a sharp twist of her body, drove her elbow into his chest. The hit knocked the wind out of him, and he staggered back, gasping for air. "That's enough," she said, her voice steady, but with a cold edge. Her eyes flicked to the others, who were slowly recovering but not making any moves toward her.

They'd learned the lesson. The street wasn't their playground.

Ophelia turned on her heel, not waiting for their response. She wasn't about to waste any more time on them. The street was quiet again, except for the lingering echo of the men's curses and the occasional rattle of distant carts. She ran another block, her pace steady but slower now, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving only the ache of exhaustion in its wake.

The city stretched out before her, still and quiet beneath the flickering light of the street lamps. Wall Sina was a world built on walls, and the same was true for its people—survival, day to day, meant knowing your limits. It meant pushing forward, even when everything around you tried to hold you down.

Ophelia kept her gaze forward, her breath a steady rhythm now. No more looking back.