Story: a woman in a black coat pierced the wheels of a car with a knife, she sat down near the wheel and touched it with her hand

The rain had started to fall, a steady drizzle that blurred the streetlights and coated the asphalt in a shimmering sheen. In the shadows of an alley, a woman in a long black coat watched the world pass by with a steely gaze. Her dark hair, slick with rain, framed a face that was both beautiful and unsettling. The car was parked haphazardly, its owner long gone, oblivious to the figure lurking nearby. Without making a sound, the woman approached. A glint of metal caught the light—she held a knife, its blade sharp and gleaming. With practiced precision, she knelt beside the rear wheel and, in one swift motion, pierced the tire, the air hissing out like a whispered secret. As she sat back on her heels, the rhythm of the rain drumming overhead matched the quickening pulse in her chest. She had a mission, but each step, every action, was imbued with a weight that seemed to pull her down. She placed her hand against the rubber, feeling the compromised structure beneath her palm, the sinking pressure of a punctured tire. Memories flashed through her mind—moments of anger, betrayal, and loss. This tire, now deflated, symbolized the weight of her own burdens. She leaned closer, allowing the cool surface to calm her racing thoughts. The scent of rain mixed with the fading rubber enveloped her, and for a moment, the world around her faded away. Was this act of sabotage an expression of her pain? Was it vengeance or a desperate cry for help? She didn’t know. All she felt was the release of tension, the cathartic freedom of taking control, however fleeting it might be. Suddenly, headlights pierced the veil of the night, illuminating her dark figure. A car was approaching—had she been seen? Panic surged through her veins, but she remained rooted to the spot, a silent testament to the chaos within. The vehicle slowed, and as it pulled into the parking lot, the driver stepped out, unaware of the disturbance hidden in the shadows. With a final, lingering touch to the tire, she stood and melted back into the darkness, leaving no trace of her presence behind but the deflated wheel—a silent witness to her turmoil and intent. The world moved on, but for her, this act was something much deeper than mere vandalism; it was a mark of existence, a declaration that she was still here, still fighting, even if it meant taking the most destructive path.