The next victim does not yet know. But she will become just another anonymous casualty in an ongoing war.
She may take a cab from a designated zone thinking she is safe travelling home with others, walk down a residential road, go to school in the time of COVID, turn up for a longed-for job interview, visit a popular mall, stop off at a boyfriend, hesitate and accept a lift from a smiling colleague, her coach, a senior relative, a familiar face, a figure in a trusted uniform, a confidante of her father.
She will stay at home, or travel to meet an estranged or current spouse, a religious or even a union leader, a prowling psychopath, a private car driver, a pharmacist, a photographer or a potential landlord. She will stop at the side of the public road when her car is hit from behind and come out to check the damage. She will smash and leap through a window stark naked, crawl on the ground trying in vain to find a place to hide. She will scream from atop a lonely cliff, and unheard in a forest, a locked vehicle, a seaside guesthouse, a prestigious hotel, a remote shack, a bed-bug infested brothel, a stinking beer-garden, a small house with thin, worn wooden boards in a very crowded section of the city or a grand mansion with soundproof rooms in a posh, gated, guarded neighbourhood.
