At the metro, a lady nails a cocky and misogynisti

The train screeches to a halt, a metallic groan that sends a shiver down your spine. Not from fear, mind you, but from the anticipation of a good score. It’s rush hour, the perfect time for your craft. Bodies packed like sardines, faces buried in phones, wallets begging to be lifted. You scan the crowd, your eyes honed by years of practice. You see her, an older woman, clutching a worn leather purse. She’s oblivious, lost in a book, a perfect target.

A flicker of excitement sparks in your chest. The thrill of the game, the rush of adrenaline, the effortless dance of deception. You slip into the throng, your body a shadow, moving with practiced ease. You feel the pulse of the crowd, their collective energy, a comforting symphony of obliviousness. You weave your way closer to your mark, feeling the warmth of her body, the gentle sway of her movements. A delicious scent of lavender and old books tickles your nose, a familiar aroma of vulnerability.

You reach for the purse, your fingers nimble and quick, a practiced dance of sleight of hand. You feel the smooth leather, the soft resistance of the snap. Just as you’re about to pry it open, a hand clamps down on yours, hard.

“What the-” you start, but the words die in your throat. The lady, the bookworm, is looking at you, her eyes cold and sharp, a flicker of amusement in their depths.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she says, her voice calm, even melodic, a stark contrast to the icy stare.

You try to pull your hand away, but hers is like a steel trap, your fingers trapped in a vice-like grip. You see a glint of steel in her hand, a small, unassuming penknife. It doesn’t look like much, but you’ve seen enough in your years to know a sharp blade when you see one.

“Let go, lady,” you hiss, your voice tight with panic. “Don’t make this any worse.”

“Worse?” she scoffs, a hint of mockery in her tone. “You’re the one trying to make things worse, trying to steal from a harmless old woman.”

“I was just-“

“Spare me the excuses,” she cuts you off, her voice growing colder. “You think this is a game, don’t you? That you can walk around, taking what you want, from who you want, without consequences?”

She leans closer, her breath hot against your ear, and the scent of lavender intensifies, now tinged with a dangerous edge. Her other hand, swift as a viper, shoots out and grabs your shirt, pulling you towards her. Before you can react, you feel a sharp, stinging pain, a searing heat that radiates through your body. You look down and see a bright red spot blooming on your jeans, right above your belt buckle.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, her voice almost purring. “It’s just a little reminder. It shouldn’t scar, but it’ll definitely sting for a while.”

The world spins around you, the rush of adrenaline now a nauseating wave. You try to pull away, but her grip tightens, the pain intensifying. You try to protest, but the words get stuck in your throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be the one in control, the one pulling the strings. You, the master of deception, the king of the quick grab. But now, you’re the one on the receiving end, the one being manipulated, the one being punished.

The woman’s gaze, still cold and unwavering, pierces through you. You feel your body tremble, the heat in your groin a burning brand of shame. You are a mere boy, caught by the hand of a woman who can inflict pain in ways you’ve never imagined.

You hear the metallic screech of the train doors opening, the rhythmic thud of feet as passengers step onto the platform. The rush hour symphony resumes, but the world around you has shifted, distorted. You are no longer the predator, but the prey, the hunter now hunted, the thief now robbed of his power.

“Consider this your last warning,” she whispers, her voice laced with a chilling coldness. “Don’t try this again. Not with me, not with anyone.”

With a final, crushing squeeze, she lets you go, and you stumble back, your hand pressed against the searing pain, your face pale with shock and humiliation. You watch her, your eyes filled with a mix of anger and fear, as she walks away, her head held high, a sense of quiet satisfaction radiating from her.

The crowd surges around you, their faces a blur, their obliviousness a mockery of your current state. You’re left standing there, a defeated shadow, the scent of lavender still clinging to you, a potent reminder of your humiliation.

You can’t stay here. You need to get out, get away, before you throw up from the sheer humiliation of it all. You turn and melt into the crowd, the sting in your groin a constant, throbbing reminder of the day you learned that not all women are easy targets.

The rush of adrenaline, the intoxicating thrill of the game, has evaporated. You feel the weight of your past mistakes, the consequences of your actions, the sting of a woman’s righteous anger. You’ve learned your lesson, the hard way. The next time you see a woman clutching a purse, you’ll look away, your fingers twitching with the urge to grab, but knowing the price you might have to pay. The fear is now stronger than the thrill. You’ve been broken, humbled, and you know it’s a feeling that will stay with you, a lingering reminder of the day you underestimated the power of a woman scorned.