Zia staggered toward her house. Several times, she bumped into people on the street, but only apologized without stopping.

She just wanted to get home quickly and report everything that had happened to her husband, with evidence of her injuries. Blood was still dripping from her hand, which was still clutching a piece of broken glass.

She used it as a weapon in case anyone tried to bother her again.

“Miss, your hand is injured!” people who passed by Zia shouted.

“I know,” Zia replied with a slight murmur. Her head didn’t turn; her eyes didn’t glance. She was only focused on the road ahead.

“Do you need help, Miss?...