Lights. Blinding white lights and piercing screams. Hers. A stolen knife, a whispered threat, a broken window. Then she was running through the woods in her skin, her bare feet bloody and bruising, torn by the dense underbrush, neck sore from glancing behind her, eyes wide in primal fear, fear that they would catch up. Catch her. Then she was home, and if she closed her eyes and blocked out the pain she could pretend that it had never happened. Except for one thing. She couldn't shift. She was stuck in her skin. As if being an Omega wasn't bad enough.