One

Yasmin’s back slammed into the cold stone wall, her vision swimming as she tried to catch her breath. She barely had a moment to recover before she heard the laughter—a cruel, mocking sound that echoed through the small dining hall. Her tormentors stood above her, their eyes alight with twisted delight.

"Wolfless and weak!" sneered a tall boy, his lips curling in disgust. He leaned closer, his voice dripping with scorn. "What good are you to anyone, Yasmin? You’re a burden to the pack."

The others laughed, the sound harsh and piercing. Yasmin kept her gaze lowered, trying to keep her expression blank. She knew better than to respond. Words would only make it worse.

"Look at her," another girl jeered, flinging her plate at Yasmin. It struck her arm, the sharp edge cutting into her skin as the leftover food splattered across her clothes. "Pathetic."

More plates followed, one after the other, shattering against her as she tried to shield herself. The smell of stale food clung to her, the weight of it pulling her down. She wanted to fight back, to tell them to stop, but her voice felt trapped in her throat.

"Enough," someone said after a while, the boredom evident in their tone. "Let’s go. She’s not even worth the effort."

Yasmin barely registered the words before the kicks began—sharp and relentless, striking her ribs, her stomach, her back. She bit her lip, refusing to cry out, her fingers curling into the stone floor. Eventually, the blows stopped, and she heard the shuffle of feet as they walked away, their laughter fading into the distance.

The silence that followed was deafening. Yasmin lay there, her body aching, her mind numb. She wanted to stay down, to close her eyes and let the darkness pull her under. But she couldn’t. She forced herself to move, to push herself up on trembling arms. Her fingers slipped on the greasy mess around her, her entire body protesting each movement.

Slowly, painfully, she began cleaning up. She gathered the broken plates, her hands shaking as she picked up the shards, the jagged edges cutting into her palms. She moved mechanically, trying to block out the pain, the humiliation.

When she finally managed to gather everything, she dragged herself to the kitchens, her steps slow and unsteady. The warmth of the room greeted her, a stark contrast to the chill that seemed to have settled into her bones. The chefs turned as she entered, their eyes widening in shock at the sight of her.

"Oh, Yasmin," murmured Gretta, a middle-aged woman who had always been kind to her. She hurried over, her eyes filled with concern as she took in Yasmin’s bruised face, the food staining her clothes, the cuts on her hands. "What happened, dear?"

Yasmin tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace. "I’m fine, Gretta," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just... need to clean these."

Gretta shook her head, her expression softening with sympathy. "Sit down, sweetheart. Let me take care of you." She guided Yasmin to a stool, her touch gentle as she helped her sit. Gretta pulled out a small jar of ointment, her fingers steady as she dabbed it on Yasmin’s face, the coolness easing some of the sting.

"You shouldn’t have to endure this," Gretta said, her voice low, filled with a tenderness that made Yasmin’s chest tighten. "It’s not right, the way they treat you."

Yasmin looked down, her vision blurring as tears threatened to spill. She blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back, but it was no use. The tears fell, and she quickly wiped at her eyes, embarrassed. "I’m sorry," she whispered. "I don’t mean to be a burden."

Gretta’s expression softened even more, and she shook her head. "You’re not a burden, Yasmin. You never were." She turned to the other chefs, her voice firm. "Mina, get some water. And you, Oliver, bring a cloth. We need to clean her up."

The younger girl, Mina, hurried over with a cup of water, her eyes wide with sympathy. "Here, Yasmin," she said, handing it to her. "Drink. You look like you haven’t eaten all day."

Yasmin took the cup with a shaky hand, the cool water soothing her dry throat. She drank slowly, her eyes closing for a moment as she let herself relax. Mina gave her a small, sad smile. "We’ll take care of the dishes, Yasmin. You need to rest."

But Yasmin shook her head, her resolve hardening. "I can’t. I have to go back to work." She stood, her legs shaky beneath her, her body protesting every movement.

Gretta frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You shouldn't be working in this state. Let us help you, just this once."

"I have to," Yasmin insisted, her voice cracking. She couldn’t afford to lose her place, no matter how much she wanted to stay. She offered them a grateful smile, despite the tears still glistening in her eyes. "Thank you. For everything."

Gretta sighed, her expression a mix of frustration and sadness. "If you need anything, you come to us, alright? We’re here for you, Yasmin."

Yasmin nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She left the warmth of the kitchen, the kindness of the chefs a stark contrast to the cruelty she faced outside.