The chill of the New York night seeped into Meghan's bones, but it was the icy glares from the well-heeled woman in the fine jacket that truly froze her.

She stood by the pedestrian lane, a ghost in her own city, her eyes constantly attentive, constantly searching. The woman, with her meticulously styled hair and dismissive sneer, embodied everything Meghan detested—the arrogance, the entitlement, the vast chasm between their worlds.

"Chill now, Meghan," a tiny voice, her constant companion, whispered in her head, pulling her back from the precipice of pure, unadulterated rage. It was a battle she fought daily, a silent war against the memories that clawed at her.

She walked away, her old suitcase dragging behind her, the stench of her clothes a stark reminder of the life she’d endured for fifteen years. But today, the city held a different kind of promise. A newspaper stand, splashed with the face of Raymond Sanders, the man who had stolen her past, ignited a cold, calculated fury.

“I am still here, you idiots, just right under your noses!” she thought, a mad laugh threatening to escape her lips. She boarded the southbound train, the rhythmic rumble a prelude to the storm she was about to unleash. The time for running was over. Now, she would hunt.