In January the following year, Stockholm lay cloaked in a pristine blanket of snow. I sat on the feet of a statue as usual. My mysterious eyes fixed on young wolves who were training in the courtyard.
They were being trained to save people, so it perplexed me as to why they couldn't spare me and instead chose to bully me. I had already accepted the fact that I was a weak human because all of them had successfully beaten me. Pain had become so familiar that it no longer registered as pain anymore.
After their training session, the boys discarded their swords and began to indulge in play. With the entire area covered in snow, they no longer needed ice cream to pelt at me. Instead, they took turns throwing snowballs in my direction.
