Chained Wolf

The acrid smell of stale cigarette smoke and old perfume clung to the air of the cheap motel room. You gasped awake, heart pounding, the echoes of past screams still ringing in your ears. Another nightmare, the same one that had haunted you for two years since the night you escaped the brutal fighting ring.

Clutching your chest, you scanned the dingy room – a temporary refuge bought with the only valuable you possessed, the hated silver collar and chain. It wasn't dawn yet, but sleep was impossible. The memories were too vivid, too raw. You needed to move, to keep running.

Pulling on the ill-fitting clothes from a homeless shelter, you gathered your meager belongings. The stolen water bottles from the broken fridge were a small comfort. With a deep breath, you slipped out of the room, the cold morning air a sharp contrast to the suffocating fear within you.