Grace “Why do you need pepper spray, Miss Grace?” Linda’s voice had been careful that day, as she stood across from my desk and watched me examine the small collection of self-defense tools laid out neatly in front of me like harmless office supplies. I remember lifting one, reading the label, then putting it down before picking up another, testing the weight in my palm as if I were choosing something far more serious than it appeared to be. There were different brands, different sizes, different strengths. My eyes stopped on one in particular. Red Hot Chilli Pepper Spray. The packaging was bold and crimson, with sharp lettering that almost looked aggressive, and something about it caught my attention immediately. It was ridiculous, and dramatic, but the design made it look dangerous, like it meant what it promised. It looked painful. I turned it over slowly in my hand, studying it. “I’ll take this one,” I said finally, a faint smile touching my lips as I made my choice. L
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