Story: A woman in a black coat tried to puncture a wheel by hitting it with a knife, she put her hand on the wheel

The street was dimly lit as the rain drizzled down, forming small puddles on the asphalt. A woman in a black coat, her face partially obscured by the collar, moved stealthily toward a parked car. The chilling night air was filled with the occasional distant sound of laughter, but here, it was just her and the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops. She glanced around, ensuring no one was watching her with a furtive glance, and then produced a glinting kitchen knife from the depths of her coat. It shone ominously under the pale yellow streetlight, a stark contrast to the darkness surrounding her. Her target—a single, unassuming wheel on the side of the vehicle—stood motionless, unaware of the impending mischief. The woman knelt beside it, the asphalt cold against her knees. As she positioned the blade near the rubber, she hesitated for a moment, her hand trembling slightly. A feeling of unease washed over her. What was she doing? Was this really the answer? But the memory of the argument, the heated words exchanged just hours before, surged back and fueled her determination. Her heart raced as she gripped the knife tighter, preparing to make her mark. With a swift motion, she brought the knife down, but instead of puncturing the wheel, she accidentally slipped, the blade grazing against the rim of the tire. A jarring sound echoed, ringing in her ears. Panic surged through her as she thought she heard footsteps approaching. Before she could think rationally, she quickly put her hand on the wheel, as if to steady herself, to anchor her resolve. It was then that she felt the warmth of the tire, a strange sensation that jolted her out of her frantic focus. Suddenly, she realized the absurdity of her actions. Was a flat tire really worth it? She bit her lip, pulled the knife back, and, glancing down in frustration, she straightened up. She wasn’t just angry; she was hurt. This wasn’t the way to express it. With a deep breath, she turned to leave, her heart still racing, but no longer driven by vengeance. As she walked away, she tossed the knife into a nearby garbage bin, a symbol of her decision to let go of the anger that had brought her here. No more destructive choices, she thought. As she made her way down the rain-soaked street, she felt oddly lighter, as if shedding the weight of her initial intentions. Perhaps healing would begin with a single step away from darkness.