Under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, the air in the slums was thick with tension. The distant hum of traffic and the occasional barking of stray dogs barely broke the silence of the narrow alley. A group of young men huddled together, their faces hard, their eyes sharp with anger and determination.


    Ayman stood at the edge of the group, his hood pulled low over his face, trying to block out the gnawing voice of doubt creeping into his thoughts. He clenched his fists, his fingers twitching as if unsure whether to grab a cigarette or a weapon. Around him, his friends were restless, their voices rising and falling like waves crashing on the shore.


    “Come on, man! Are we just going to sit here and let those bastards take what’s ours?” one of them shouted, his voice laced with frustration. It was Farid, their self-proclaimed leader, pacing back and forth with a crowbar in his hand. His thin frame was coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.


    “No way!” another chimed in, slamming a fist into his palm. “They think they can jump Hamza and get away with it? Nah, not tonight. This is our turf!”


    The name Hamza sparked a murmur of agreement among the group. Hamza was one of theirs—a brother in everything but blood. He’d been beaten and humiliated by a rival crew, and now it was about more than just the weed. It was about pride.


    Ayman shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the edge of the alley where the dim light faded into shadow. He could still hear Hamza’s voice in his head, shaky and weak, pleading for help when they found him battered and broken. He didn’t like Hamza much, but the sight of him like that had done something to Ayman—something he couldn’t explain.


    Farid’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Listen up!” he barked, raising the crowbar like a general addressing his troops. “This is our chance to send a message. They think they can mess with us, with our business? Fuck that! We’re taking back what’s ours. For Hamza. For us.”


    “For us!” the group heard, their voices blending into a low, menacing chant.


    Ayman felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Kamel, his oldest friend, a stocky guy with a scar running down his cheek. “You in, Ayman?” Kamel’s voice was calm, almost too calm, but his eyes burned with intensity. “We need you, bro. We need every hand tonight.”


    Ayman hesitated, his stomach twisting in knots. The truth was, he didn’t care much about the weed or the territory. But here, among them, he wasn’t just a loser wasting his life—he was someone, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.


    He nodded, his voice barely audible. “Yeah... I’m in.”


    Farid grinned, a wild, feral grin that made Ayman’s skin crawl. “That’s what I like to hear! Let’s gear up, boys.”


    The group dispersed, rummaging through the shadows for makeshift weapons—pipes, bats, and broken bottles. Ayman found himself holding a rusty wrench, its weight unfamiliar in his hand. The sound of their preparations echoed in the alley, a chilling symphony of metal clanking and adrenaline-fueled whispers.


    “Remember,” Farid said, his voice dropping to a sinister tone, “this isn’t just about the weed. This is about respect. We’re taking it back, no matter what.”


    The words hung heavy in the air as they began to move, their shadows stretching long and jagged under the flickering light. Ayman glanced back over his shoulder, his heart hammering in his chest. Somewhere deep inside, he wondered if he was about to cross a line he could never uncross.


    The small, run-down old café sat at the edge of the slum, its cracked neon sign flickering “Café Ibn el-Mahroussa.” Inside, the rival crew lounged carelessly, their laughter and crude jokes getting off the peeling walls. A bottle of cheap vodka passed from hand to hand, their voices growing louder with every sip. Smoke hung heavy in the air, mingling with the greasy scent of fried food.


    At the far corner, an older man hunched over a wooden table, meticulously packing small bundles of weed into thin, brown paper. His rough hands moved with practiced precision, a cigarette dangling from his lips as ash fell onto the table. He was the crew’s manufacturer, the heart of their operation.


    Outside, Ayman and his crew crouched in the shadows, their breaths shallow, their hearts pounding. The tension was electric, crackling between them as Farid, at the front, signaled for silence. Ayman gripped his wrench tightly, his palms slick with sweat.


    “Ready?” Farid whispered, his voice sharp and cold.


    The group nodded, their faces hardening into masks of determination.


    “Go!”


    Like a tidal wave crashing onto the shore, they burst into the café, shattering the quiet camaraderie of the rival crew. The first sound was the deafening crash of glass as Kamel hurled a brick through the front window, shards spraying across the room.


    “What the fuck—?!” one of the rivals yelled, his voice cut short as Farid slammed a crowbar into the table, splitting it in half.


    Ayman moved on instinct, his wrench swinging wildly as he rushed toward the nearest rival. The man barely had time to react before the cold, rusty metal connected with his shoulder. He let out a guttural scream, stumbling back into the wall.


    “Get up, you piece of shit!” Farid roared, grabbing another rival by the collar and slamming him onto the ground. The man struggled, his fists flailing, but Farid was relentless, landing punch after punch.


    The café erupted into chaos. Chairs flew through the air, bottles shattered against walls, and the sickening thud of fists meeting flesh rebounded in the confined space.


    Ayman found himself face-to-face with another rival, a burly guy with a shaved head. The man lunged at him, swinging a broken bottle. Ayman ducked just in time, the glass whistling past his ear, and countered with a desperate swing of his wrench, catching the man’s jaw. Blood sprayed across the floor as the rival staggered back, clutching his face.


    “Fuck you!” the rival spat, his voice muffled by the blood pooling in his mouth.


    “Fuck you too!” Ayman shot back, his voice shaking as much from adrenaline as fear.


    In the corner, Farid and Kamel were tearing through the manufacturer’s table, scattering weed and money across the floor. “Where’s the stash?!” Farid demanded, grabbing the old man by the collar and shaking him.


    “I don’t know—” the old man started, but Farid didn’t let him finish. He smashed the crowbar onto the table beside the man’s head, splinters flying.


    “Don’t lie to me, old man!” Farid shouted.


    The rivals, though outnumbered, fought back viciously. One of them grabbed a chair and swung it at Kamel, hitting him square in the back. Kamel let out a grunt of pain but turned and tackled the man to the ground, raining punches down on him.


    Ayman, breathing heavily, looked around the café. The floor was littered with broken glass, overturned chairs, and blood. His hands trembled as he gripped the wrench, his knuckles white.


    The café was a wreck, its once-standing tables and chairs reduced to rubble. The air was thick with tension, the groans of the injured blending with the faint sound of sirens in the distance—still too faint to be noticed by most of the group.


    Ayman stood frozen, his wrench trembling in his grip. The manufacturer lay on the ground, his face bloodied, one eye already swelling shut. Farid approached him, his crowbar resting on his shoulder, his steps deliberate.


    Ayman’s breath hitched. Was Farid really going to finish him off?


    But Farid surprised him. Instead of landing a killing blow, he delivered a sharp kick to the manufacturer’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto his side. The old man groaned, clutching his stomach, but he was still alive.


    Farid crouched beside him, his voice low and cutting. “You listen to me, old man. This is your warning. Next time, don’t just sit there packing for them like a coward. Stand up and fight for yourself, or you’ll always be a punching bag for the next crew that comes along. And this is what happened to anyone that crossed us.”


    The manufacturer whimpered, nodding weakly as Farid stood and turned to Ayman. “You see that? Hesitation gets you nowhere. In this world, you either hit first or get hit. Remember that.”


    Before Ayman could respond, a sudden shout came from the far side of the room. “Farid! Ayman! Kamel’s hurt!”This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Ayman’s heart dropped as he rushed to where Kamel lay slumped against the wall, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. The rival who’d struck him with a chair was now crumpled on the floor, groaning in pain.


    “Kamel! Hey, man, are you okay?” Ayman knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his friend’s shoulder.


    Kamel groaned, his voice strained but steady. “I’m fine… just a scratch. Don’t worry about me.”


    “You’re bleeding like crazy! We need to get you out of here,” Ayman said, his voice frantic.


    “I said I’m fine,” Kamel muttered, trying to push himself up. He winced, his movements slow and shaky.


    Farid appeared beside them, his expression hard. “Can he walk?”


    “I think so, but—” Ayman started, but his words were cut off by a sudden noise.


    The faint sound of sirens had grown louder, unmistakable now. The distant wail of police vehicles pierced the tense atmosphere, and the group froze.


    “Shit,” Farid muttered, his head snapping toward the door. “The cops are coming. We need to move. Now.”


    “Farid, we can’t leave Kamel like this!” Ayman protested, his voice desperate.


    “We’re not leaving anyone,” Farid snapped. “Help him up. Let’s go!”


    Ayman and another crew member hoisted Kamel to his feet, supporting him as the group scrambled toward the exit. The tension was suffocating, every creak of the floorboards and every shout from outside making their hearts pound faster.


    The group spilled out into the alley, the cool night air biting against their sweat-soaked skin. Farid took the lead, motioning for everyone to scatter. “Split up! Head to the safehouse! We’ll regroup there!”


    Ayman hesitated, glancing back at the café one last time. The manufacturer lay where they’d left him, clutching his ribs and watching them with fearful eyes. For a fleeting moment, guilt flickered through Ayman’s chest, but it was quickly drowned out by the urgency of the moment.


    He turned and ran, Kamel leaning heavily on his shoulder. The sirens grew deafening now, the blue and red lights of the police vehicles flashing against the darkened streets.


    “Don’t look back,” Ayman muttered to himself, his legs burning as he forced himself to keep going.


    The chaos in the café spilled onto the streets, the air heavy with the sound of sirens and panicked shouts. Ayman struggled to keep Kamel upright, the injured boy’s weight pressing heavily against his shoulder. The blood from Kamel’s wound smeared onto Ayman’s hand, sticky and warm, as they staggered toward an alleyway.


    “Just a little more, Kamel. Hold on,” Ayman muttered, his voice shaky, his heart pounding against his ribs.


    But before they could make any real distance, a wave of blue and red lights lit up the alley. A police car screeched to a halt directly in front of them, blocking their escape.


    “Shit!” Ayman hissed, his legs faltering.


    The car doors slammed open, and two policemen stormed out, batons gripped tightly in their hands. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a stern face, barked, “You two! Stop right there!”


    Kamel groaned, barely conscious, as Ayman tried to reason with them. “Please, he’s hurt! He needs a hospital!”


    But his words were ignored. The officer closest to them raised his baton and brought it down hard on Kamel’s side. The injured boy crumpled to the ground with a pained cry.


    “Kamel!” Ayman shouted, dropping to his knees to shield his friend.


    “Stay down!” the other officer yelled, grabbing Ayman by the collar and yanking him back. The baton came down again, this time striking Ayman’s shoulder. The pain was sharp and immediate, but Ayman barely felt it through his rage.


    “Stop! He’s injured!” Ayman screamed, his voice cracking. He struggled against the officer’s grip, reaching for Kamel, but another blow to his ribs sent him collapsing to the ground.


    Kamel lay motionless, his shallow breaths barely audible over the chaos. The first officer grabbed him by the arm, dragging him like a sack of grain toward the waiting car. His blood smeared across the pavement, leaving a trail behind him.


    Ayman clawed at the ground, trying to rise, but a boot pressed against his back, forcing him down. “Stay down, you little punk!” the officer growled, delivering a sharp kick to Ayman’s side for good measure.


    “Please! Stop! He needs help!” Ayman cried, his voice hoarse, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.


    The officers hauled both Ayman and Kamel to the car, shoving them inside with no regard for their injuries. Kamel slumped against the seat, his head lolling to the side, while Ayman sat rigid, his fists clenched and his body trembling with anger and helplessness.


    Outside, the chaos continued. More officers stormed the café, rounding up anyone still standing. The sharp cracks of batons striking flesh resonate through the streets, accompanied by the anguished cries of the injured.


    The car doors slammed shut, and the vehicle jerked into motion. Ayman stared at Kamel’s pale, bloodied face, his heart sinking deeper with every turn of the wheels.


    Meanwhile, Karim drove through the narrow streets of Ettadhamen''s municipality, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner of the dimly lit alleys. The car’s engine growled as he pressed the pedal harder, frustration mounting with every unanswered question. He stopped near the alley his mother mentioned, rolling down the window to shout at a group of young men loitering nearby.


    “Did you see Ayman? My brother? He was here earlier with some others,” Karim barked, his tone sharp.


    One of the boys shrugged lazily. “Yeah, we saw a group heading to the old café down by the factories. Looked like trouble to me.”


    “Trouble? Damn it,” Karim muttered under his breath. He nodded his thanks and sped off in the direction they pointed.


    As he turned another corner, his phone buzzed against the dashboard, the same unknown number lighting up the screen. He groaned, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Who the hell keeps calling me now?” he muttered.


    He snatched up the phone, swiping to answer. “Who is this? Why do you keep calling me?” he demanded, his voice edged with impatience.


    There was a brief silence on the other end before a nervous voice spoke up. “Officer Karim? I—I’ve been trying to reach you.”


    Karim frowned. “Who are you? What do you want?”


    “My name’s Anis,” the caller stammered. “I’m Farid’s brother. You know, Farid—the boy who’s been… involved in some bad stuff lately. I need to warn you.”


    Karim’s grip on the phone tightened. “Warn me about what? Speak clearly, man!”


    Anis’s voice wavered, but he pressed on. “I overheard my brother talking to his friends. They planned to attack the café—some fight over territory or something. I know what kind of chaos these things bring, and I couldn’t just sit back. I found your number because I know you’re a good cop. You wouldn’t let things get worse.”


    Karim’s heart sank. The pieces were falling into place too quickly. His brother was in the middle of this.


    Karim inhaled sharply, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “Anis, are you sure about this? Where exactly is this café?”


    “It’s near the old manufacturing block, close to the west station,” Anis replied. “But—”


    Karim didn’t wait for the rest. “Thank you,” he said hurriedly before ending the call.


    Without hesitation, Karim grabbed his police radio and called in. “This is Officer Karim, badge 217. I need confirmation on an incident at the café near the old factories. Any reports?”


    A voice crackled back. “Affirmative, Officer. Units were dispatched to break up a gang fight there. Multiple arrests made. Injuries reported.”


    Karim’s heart thudded against his chest. “Did you detain a young man, about twenty, brown skin, medium build, probably helping someone injured?”


    “Stand by,” the officer replied.


    The pause felt like an eternity before the voice returned. “We have several suspects fitting that description, Officer Karim. All are being transported to the nearby station.”


    Karim cursed under his breath. He swung the car around, tires screeching, as he headed toward the station. His mind raced with anger, fear, and frustration.


    Karim stepped into the police station, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over the stark, sterile interior. The front desk officer raised an eyebrow at him, but Karim wasted no time, pulling out his phone and showing a picture of Ayman.


    “I’m looking for this boy. He’s my brother,” Karim said firmly.


    The officer studied the photo before nodding. “Ah, yeah, the boy helping his heavily injured friend. We sent that friend to the hospital, and your brother is here. He’s under investigation.”


    Another cop nearby chimed in, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Helping a friend, huh?” He looked Karim up and down, a smirk spreading across his face. “Well, he is your brother. Guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree after all.”


    Karim’s face flushed with shame, the remark hitting him harder than he expected. He took a deep breath, his fists clenching slightly at his sides, but before he could respond, the first cop interjected.


    “Hey, no problem, Karim. You’ve always been one of the good ones, always helping us out when we needed it.” The officer leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I’ll pull your brother out of this mess.”


    Another cop nearby snorted. “Really? For free?”


    The first officer chuckled and patted Karim on the shoulder. “Come on, this is Karim. His name literally means generosity. He’ll buy us some beers after this, right?”


    Karim forced a small smile and nodded. “Yeah, sure,” he muttered, though his thoughts remained fixed on Ayman.


    Karim waited anxiously as the officer disappeared into the back. His fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh, his mind clouded with worry and guilt. Moments later, the door opened, and Ayman appeared, flanked by two officers.


    Ayman’s face was a canvas of raw defiance and pain. His cheek was swollen, a deep bruise darkening his skin. A thin trickle of dried blood clung stubbornly to the corner of his lip. His shirt, torn and dirt-streaked, clung to him like a reminder of the chaos he’d just survived. But it wasn’t his battered appearance that caught Karim’s attention—it was his eyes.


    They burned with an unrelenting fire, a hatred so potent it seemed to make the air around him heavier. His gaze locked onto the cop who had dragged him out, the same one who had mercilessly beaten him and Kamel earlier.


    The officer smirked, oblivious to the storm brewing in Ayman’s soul. “Here’s your troubled brother,” he said, almost mockingly. “You’re lucky you have such a well-respected brother, kid. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be walking out of here tonight so easily.”


    Karim stepped forward, trying to diffuse the tension. “Thanks for letting him go. I appreciate it,” he said quickly, placing a firm hand on Ayman’s shoulder.


    The cop’s expression hardened. “Listen, kid,” he said, leaning closer to Ayman. “That gang you’re with? Farid and his crew? They’re nothing but scum. He’s a smuggler, a wanted man, and if you keep following him, you’ll end up exactly where he belongs—in prison. Or worse.”


    Ayman nodded mechanically, but his jaw tightened, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. His eyes never left the officer’s face, his hatred seething and raw, a silent vow of defiance.


    Karim noticed the tension and gave Ayman’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, guiding him toward the door. “Come on, let’s go,” he said softly, trying to calm the boy.


    But Ayman couldn’t let it go. As they walked away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel. His mind replayed every blow, every insult, every moment of humiliation. His bruised face twisted into a mask of fury, and his eyes, bloodshot and wide, promised vengeance.


    The cop caught his look and smirked again, oblivious to the deep scars he’d just etched into the boy’s psyche.


    Outside, the cold air hit Ayman like a slap, but it did nothing to douse the flames inside him. Karim tried to speak, his voice calm and measured, but Ayman didn’t hear a word. His thoughts were a cacophony of anger and pain, his hatred for the system, the cops, and even himself growing with every step they took.


    As they disappeared into the darkness, Karim’s guilt weighed heavier than ever. He had saved his brother tonight, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had lost him in another way—Ayman’s soul now tethered to a hatred that would soon demand retribution.


    And in the shadows, the promise of blood and vengeance loomed, a silent prelude to the storm that was yet to come.


    end.