《I'm A Hitman》


 Chapter 1: Where All Began

    "Finally... one last test before I become a hitman. One last step before I get my license, before the money... but God, just one more kill. One more innocent life. What the fuck should I do?"


    The bathroom was dimly lit, a single flickering bulb casting unsteady shadows on the cracked tiles. The air was thick, a cocktail of cheap cologne and damp mildew clinging to the walls. He stood hunched over the sink, gripping its edges as though letting go would make him fall apart completely.


    The reflection in the mirror was almost unrecognizable. His face¡ªpale, slick with sweat, and twisted with terror¡ªstared back at him like a stranger. His bloodshot eyes darted, searching for answers in the depths of his reflection, but all he saw was the shadow of a man who used to be whole. The dark suit he wore hung sharply on his frame, a cruel reminder of the transformation he''d undergone. On the outside, he looked like someone powerful, someone dangerous. But inside, he was still screaming.


    He turned on the faucet, the old pipes groaning in protest, and splashed cold water onto his face. The droplets slid down his cheeks like tears, but the icy shock did nothing to calm the storm raging inside him. His breathing was shallow and erratic, each exhale jagged as if his lungs were working against him.


    The money. The power. The license. It was all so close he could taste it, but the cost¡ªGod, the cost¡ªwas a weight he could barely carry.


    He straightened slowly, forcing himself to meet the eyes of the man in the mirror. Those eyes¡ªthey belonged to someone else now. The man staring back at him wasn¡¯t the wide-eyed, hopeful dreamer he used to be. That man was gone, buried under layers of fear, guilt, and desperation.


    The final test awaited him, lurking just outside the bathroom door, and there was no turning back. Not now. Not after everything he had done.


    The cold porcelain of the sink pressed against his hands as his grip tightened, knuckles whitening. A memory flickered at the edges of his mind, uninvited and relentless. How had it come to this? How had his life spiraled so completely out of control?


    He exhaled shakily, his breath fogging the mirror. A month ago, this madness would have been unimaginable. But now, it was his reality. The beginning of the end started long before tonight. And whether he lived or died, whether he succeeded or failed, he was certain of one thing: this night would define him forever.


    This is how all this journey began a month ago.


    Tunis is a city with two faces. In the heart of the capital, sunlight bathed whitewashed buildings and glass towers, their reflections shimmering in fountains and polished streets. The air carried the scent of jasmine and fresh coffee from bustling caf¨¦s where the wealthy lingered, their conversations soft and measured. But as Karim drove further, the scenery morphed. The roads narrowed, the buildings aged, and the glossy fa?ades gave way to peeling paint and graffiti-scrawled walls.


    This was the real Tunis, where beauty and hardship collided. It''s a patchwork of rich neighborhoods and sprawling slums stitched together by desperation and hope. Karim glanced at the cracked pavement, where stray cats prowled between piles of trash, and then at the kids chasing a deflated soccer ball, their shouts echoing off the walls.


    He reached for the dial on his car¡¯s radio, turning up the soft, melancholic notes of loud music. The sound filled the cramped space, grounding him after a day of dealing with petty criminals and bureaucratic headaches. Outside, the golden glow of sunset painted the slums in hues that made them almost beautiful¡ªuntil the shadows crept in, revealing their true face.


    Karim adjusted his rearview mirror, catching his own reflection. Dark hair slicked back, sharp brown eyes that had seen too much, and the tan uniform of a police officer, his badge catching the light. He straightened his posture instinctively, a habit ingrained after years on the force.


    As he turned onto his street, the world softened. Familiar faces appeared¡ªneighbors who had watched him grow up. Si Ahmed, an elderly man with a cane, stood outside his small shop.


    ¡°Karim, back from duty?¡± Si Ahmed called, his voice gruff but kind.


    ¡°Yes, Si Ahmed,¡± Karim replied, rolling down the window and offering a polite nod. ¡°Long day, but it¡¯s good to be back.¡±


    The hum of his car engine blended with the chatter of the neighborhood. Women in colorful scarves haggled with a fruit vendor, their laughter spilling out into the street. A group of young men sat on the curb, their heads bent over a game of cards. Karim slowed to a crawl, careful not to disturb the children playing in the dusty lot.


    His house came into view¡ªa modest, two-story building with faded white walls and green shutters hanging slightly askew. He pulled up to the curb, cutting the engine. The car sighed as it settled, its age showing in every creak.


    As Karim stepped out, a boy no older than ten ran up to him, clutching a soccer ball that looked like it had seen better days. His oversized shirt hung loose on his thin frame, and his sandals, barely held together, slapped against the pavement.


    ¡°Oh, Mr. Karim,¡± the boy blurted, breathless from running, ¡°can you tell Ayman to give me back my DVDs? He¡¯s had them for weeks!¡±


    Karim crouched slightly, resting a hand on the boy¡¯s shoulder. The lines on his face softened into a smile, and his voice was warm.


    ¡°Ah, my brother is still causing problems for you?¡± Karim teased. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll make sure he returns them.¡±


    The boy beamed, his worry gone, and scampered off to rejoin his friends. Karim watched him go, his smile lingering before fading into something more resigned. He turned back to the house, brushing dust from his uniform as he walked up the steps.


    He hesitated at the door, listening to the muffled sounds of the neighborhood. Kids laughing, a distant radio crackling, someone yelling over a card game. This was home¡ªchaotic, flawed, but his.


    As Karim stepped inside the house, the familiar scent of cooking filled the air. The apartment was on the second floor of a two-building complex, each wall painted in pale beige, the floors worn but still sturdy. The steps creaked beneath his weight as he ascended, a sound that comforted him, like the home he had grown up in.


    When he reached the door, it swung open, and there stood Marwa, his wife, a vision of warmth. Her radiant smile took his breath away, her dark black hair cascading down her shoulders like a flowing river. She looked every bit the part of the glowing pregnant woman she was.


    "Welcome back!" she said, her voice soft and sweet, as she stepped forward to embrace him. "How was your day?"


    "It was normal, as usual," Karim answered, his tone flat as he let go of her and made his way to the table.


    Moments later, Marwa had already prepared dinner¡ªa steaming plate of food, filling the room with a comforting aroma. She was attentive, always looking out for him, and she moved with the grace of someone who took pride in the small moments of life. Karim sat down, the weight of the day pressing on him, but he couldn¡¯t help but smile at her care.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Marwa," he asked, as he picked up the warm bread she had placed in front of him, "Did my mom visit you earlier and bring the bread? I told Ayman to pick up two from Saliman''s bakery."


    There was a slight pause before she answered. She placed a plate of freshly prepared green salad beside him and wiped her hands on her apron. "Ah, no. She didn¡¯t come. I went to the bakery myself, and just grabbed the bread from the closest one."


    Karim¡¯s gaze shifted to the bread, a subtle frown forming on his face as he chewed in silence. He knew Ayman hadn¡¯t gone, and somehow, that didn¡¯t surprise him. He bit his lip but didn¡¯t say more.


    Marwa continued, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Sorry, we ran out of onions," she said, placing a second dish on the table. "I asked your mom for some."


    Karim looked up at her with a soft smile, trying to ease the mood. "Well, my bad. I¡¯ve been eating so many onions lately. I¡¯ll buy you some soon."


    She laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Yes, Mister Onion who captures thieves."


    Karim chuckled. "Yes, I¡¯m Onionman, like Batman."


    She raised an eyebrow, placing her hand on her growing belly. "And I¡¯ll be a Batmoon.¡¯ Look at my belly¡ªit¡¯s getting big. I¡¯m losing my style!"


    Karim¡¯s smile widened as he playfully responded, "Yes, our son will be here soon, inshallah. And he¡¯ll be the one bringing us bread in the future."


    They both laughed at the thought, the warmth of their easy banter filling the room, a gentle reminder of simpler times. Karim''s eyes softened as he looked at her, the lines of his face easing into a rare smile. He watched the way her lips curved as she spoke, her voice light and melodic, like the distant sound of a song he''d always known but never truly heard until now.


    As she continued, Karim''s gaze lingered on her face, tracing the delicate way her brows furrowed when she was focused, the glint of mischief in her eyes that made his chest tighten. His heart, for once, wasn''t weighed down by the heavy thoughts that usually consumed him; instead, it beat in rhythm with her words. He felt a pull he hadn''t expected, a warmth growing within him that had nothing to do with the laughter or the meal between them.


    Her presence, so effortlessly graceful, made the rest of the world seem distant and unimportant. He wanted to keep looking at her, to memorize every little detail of her face as though it held the key to something deeper¡ªsomething he wasn¡¯t ready to admit. But for now, he was content, watching her talk, lost in the way the light caught her features, the way she made him feel like the world outside had momentarily stopped.


    Just as the laughter settled, Karim¡¯s phone rang, interrupting the moment. He glanced at the screen and saw an unfamiliar number flashing on it.


    "Who is this?" he muttered, hesitating to pick up.


    Marwa noticed and urged him. "Answer it. Maybe it¡¯s important."


    Karim shook his head, still chewing his food. "Probably just work, wanting me back at the station or something," he said, but the persistent ringing began to irritate him. He ignored it for a moment longer, but Marwa¡¯s persistent glances made him roll his eyes and pick up the phone.


    Just as his hand reached for it, his mother¡¯s voice been heard from downstairs, urgent and frantic.


    "Karim! Karim!" She screamed, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "Please, come quickly!"


    Her knocking on the door was frantic, adding to the mounting tension in the house.


    Karim dropped his phone and stood up abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest. Something was wrong.


    Karim¡¯s heart raced as he rushed toward the door, but his mother¡¯s terrified voice stopped him in his tracks.


    "What happened, Mom?" he asked, his tone sharp with concern.


    She stood by the stairs, visibly shaken, her hands trembling as she spoke. Her once-vibrant face, now lined with the years of sacrifice and worry, seemed even older in that moment. Her hair, once dark and full, had long since turned to a silvery gray, now thin and wispy, framing the weathered features of a woman who had given everything for her children. The weight of life¡¯s hardships hung on her shoulders, but in her eyes, there remained a fierce, undying love, a love that had never wavered despite the toll the years had taken on her body and spirit.


    She had been both mother and father to her children, the silent strength in their lives, bearing the brunt of hardships with a quiet resilience. Her hands, though now marked with age and the years of labor, had once held them with tender care, shaping their lives with sacrifice. Her life had never been her own; it had always been about them¡ªher boys, her everything. She had given up her youth, her dreams, and even her health to see them survive, to give them a better life. Yet, despite all she had endured, she still carried herself with a grace that came from a lifetime of enduring pain for the sake of those she loved.


    Now, standing before Karim, her face pale and drawn with concern, it was clear that the years had not dulled her devotion, even as the lines on her face deepened. "I heard¡­ I heard Ayman going to a street fight," she repeated, her voice faltering slightly. The words seemed to tremble in the air, as though the very mention of her son''s involvement in violence was a burden too heavy for her frail heart to bear.


    Karim froze, a wave of frustration sweeping over him. "Damn it, not again!" he muttered, slamming his fist against the wall. This wasn¡¯t the first time Ayman had been involved in something like this. He didn¡¯t need this on top of everything else, especially with his own life stretched thin.


    Without another word, he grabbed his jacket from the chair and slipped his phone into his pocket, his movements swift and tense. As he headed toward the door, he saw Marwa standing by the kitchen, her face a mixture of worry and disappointment. Her hand rested on her swollen belly, her eyes filled with concern as she watched him prepare to leave.


    "Please," His mother said softly, her voice trembling. "Don¡¯t call your friends to come and arrest them, Karim. Just bring Ayman back home, let them fight or whatever¡­ but please, don¡¯t bring the police into this."


    Her words hung heavy in the air, a quiet plea for him to handle the situation as best as he could. She knew her son was a man of duty, but tonight, she was asking for something more than his badge.


    Karim stood there for a moment, caught between the pressure of his job and the pull of his family. He wanted to reassure her, but all he could manage was a strained smile. "I¡¯ll handle it, mom. I¡¯ll bring him back, don¡¯t worry." then turned his head to Marwa "I will be right back soon, don''t worry honey."


    As he stepped out into the cool night air, the weight of the situation settled in. Ayman was always in trouble¡ªalways testing his limits¡ªand this time, it might be more than just a scuffle. But tonight, Karim could only pray it didn¡¯t spiral into something worse.


    He slid into his car, the engine starting with a low growl as he drove off toward the alley, the city streets flashing by in the rearview mirror. The fight was waiting, and Ayman was about to face the consequences.


    Karim bolted down the stairs two at a time, his heartbeat pounding in his ears like a war drum. His jacket flapped behind him as he struggled to shrug it on while moving, the cold night air biting at his face. The faint sounds of children playing in the distance felt distant, irrelevant, drowned out by the chaos unfolding in his mind.


    Behind him, his mother¡¯s voice was frantic, desperate. "Karim! Promise me, please, promise me you¡¯ll bring Ayman back safely! Don¡¯t let anything happen to him. He¡¯s still my son, even if he¡¯s... even if he¡¯s lost his way." Her words caught in her throat, her breath shaky as tears glistened in her eyes.


    Karim turned back for the briefest of moments, his own emotions barely held in check. "I¡¯ll find him, Mom. I swear. I won¡¯t let anything happen to him." The words felt like a promise and a burden, each syllable heavier than the last.


    He reached his car, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. The streetlight above flickered faintly, casting shadows on his tense face as he slid into the driver¡¯s seat. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white as the fear and anger coiled in his gut.


    His mother stood at the gate, clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders as though it could shield her from the cold¡ªand the growing dread. She watched as Karim started the engine, the sound roaring to life and cutting through the quiet of the neighborhood.


    "Karim, please..." she called out one last time, her voice almost drowned by the hum of the car. "He¡¯s your brother. Don¡¯t forget that."


    He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Every second felt like a lifetime. His foot pressed down on the accelerator, the car lurching forward as he sped into the night. The roads blurred under the dim streetlights as he drove, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.


    The tension hung in the air like a storm cloud, ready to burst. The faces of kids playing soccer on the corner, old men gathered at the caf¨¦ smoking shisha, and women carrying groceries passed by his window in a haze. But Karim¡¯s focus was sharp, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios.


    He knew the streets Ayman and his friends haunted all too well. Karim had walked those same alleys once, years ago, back when he wasn¡¯t wearing a badge¡ªback when he wasn¡¯t a man expected to have all the answers.


    The irony wasn¡¯t lost on him. He was a police officer, a protector of the law. Yet here he was, chasing down his own brother before the streets could swallow him whole.


    As the car tore through the narrow lanes, Karim¡¯s grip on the wheel tightened even further. He wasn¡¯t just trying to reach Ayman¡ªhe was trying to outrun the sinking feeling in his chest.

 Chapter 2: The Thin Line

    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¡ªa 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¡ªsomething 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¡ªhe 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¡ªpipes, 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 caf¨¦ sat at the edge of the slum, its cracked neon sign flickering ¡°Caf¨¦ 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 caf¨¦, 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¡ª?!¡± 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 caf¨¦ 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¡ª¡± 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 caf¨¦. The floor was littered with broken glass, overturned chairs, and blood. His hands trembled as he gripped the wrench, his knuckles white.


    The caf¨¦ 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¡ªstill 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!¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    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¡ª¡± 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 caf¨¦ 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 caf¨¦ 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 caf¨¦, 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 caf¨¦ 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¡ªI¡¯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¡ªthe 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 caf¨¦¡ªsome 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 caf¨¦?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s near the old manufacturing block, close to the west station,¡± Anis replied. ¡°But¡ª¡±


    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 caf¨¦ 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¡ªit 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¡ªin 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¡ªAyman¡¯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.

 Chapter 3: Is It Fair?

    Ayman''s fist crashes against the frayed upholstery of the car seat, the dull thud reverberating through the cramped space. His breathing is erratic, shallow, and uneven, as though the weight of his anger is suffocating him. His jaw is so tightly clenched that the veins on his neck bulge, his teeth grinding audibly. The car smells faintly of sweat and stale air, but Ayman''s rage fills it like an oppressive force.


    He stares out the window for a moment, his knuckles whitening as he grips his thighs, and then his voice slices through the tense silence. It¡¯s raw and venomous, filled with the bitterness of years spent fighting a battle he feels is rigged against him.


    Ayman¡¯s voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade, raw and indignant. His hands trembled, whether from the lingering adrenaline or the sheer outrage boiling inside him. He glared at Karim, his eyes blazing with fury.


    "The policeman hit me hard, Karim!" he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "And you... you offer him drinks? What the hell is wrong with you? So unfair."


    His words hits in the small, old car, the accusation hanging thick in the air. The muscles in Ayman¡¯s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. He couldn¡¯t believe it¡ªhis brother, his blood, had shown respect to the same men who had left him bruised and battered.


    Karim, gripping the steering wheel tightly, let out a sharp exhale. His knuckles whitened, but his expression remained calm¡ªtoo calm for Ayman¡¯s liking. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward his younger brother, the disappointment etched deep into his face.


    "Unfair?" Karim¡¯s voice was low but firm, carrying an edge that made Ayman¡¯s anger falter. "It¡¯s more than fair that you got your ass kicked in that police station."


    Ayman recoiled slightly, his defiance wavering under the weight of Karim¡¯s words. Karim leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening as his frustration began to spill over.


    "Do you have any idea what you were doing? Risking your life like some reckless idiot? You think it¡¯s a game, Ayman? You think I should have stood there and scolded the officer after he could¡¯ve thrown you in jail¡ªor worse?"


    Karim¡¯s hands tightened around the wheel again, his voice rising just enough to show his anger without losing control.


    "You¡¯re lucky, damn lucky, that I got called to pick you up. Do you even understand that? If I hadn¡¯t come, you¡¯d still be sitting in that cell, or worse, lying in some hospital bed¡ªor worse than that, lying in the ground. And what would that have proven, huh? What would Mom have done then?"


    Ayman opened his mouth to argue, but Karim¡¯s glare stopped him cold. His brother¡¯s frustration wasn¡¯t just about the police¡ªit was about him. About the choices Ayman kept making and the way those choices rippled out to everyone around him.


    The tension between them was thick, the air in the car suffocating. Ayman looked away, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he tried to swallow the anger, the guilt, the shame swirling inside him. But the words Karim had said refused to leave him, echoing in his mind like a relentless drumbeat.


    "... Fair? fair, Karim? You don¡¯t get it, do you?" His voice is sharp, almost spitting the words. "The world¡¯s a fucking joke! A bunch of assholes in charge, screwing over people like us. The cops¡ªthey¡¯ve got the power, they abuse it, and they think they can do whatever the hell they want. And no one says shit, because they¡¯re the ones holding all the cards!"


    Ayman¡¯s entire body trembles as he speaks, his hands balling into tight fists that rest on his knees. His wide, furious eyes lock onto Karim¡¯s profile, daring him to argue.


    "This world is unfair, Karim, and I don¡¯t care what you say!" he continues, his voice cracking slightly from the intensity of his emotion. "I didn¡¯t choose this life! I didn¡¯t ask to be born into this mess, but here I am, stuck with it, stuck with all the goddamn consequences!"


    The car suddenly jerks as Karim slams his hand onto the steering wheel, the horn letting out a brief, startled honk. His jaw is tight, his face a mask of simmering anger that threatens to boil over. He grips the wheel so hard his knuckles turn ghostly white, and when he finally speaks, his voice is trembling¡ªbut not with fear. It¡¯s the controlled fury of someone who has reached his limit.


    "Unfair? Unfair?!" Karim¡¯s voice rises with incredulity, his head snapping toward Ayman. "You¡¯re talking to me about fairness, Ayman? You think you¡¯re the only one who¡¯s had it hard? You think I don¡¯t know what unfair feels like?"


    Karim leans forward, his back rigid, as if bracing himself to physically withstand the storm between them. His breath comes in shallow bursts, his face illuminated intermittently by the passing streetlights.


    "You get money every damn day, from me and from our mother!" he snarls, his words cutting like knives. "And you sit there whining about fairness, and you don¡¯t even see it. You don¡¯t see what she¡¯s done¡ªwhat I¡¯ve done¡ªfor you!"


    The air in the car feels heavier, the tension palpable as Karim¡¯s voice takes on a sharp edge, years of frustration and suppressed pain surfacing all at once.


    "While you were off running around, refusing to finish school, refusing to work, she was out there, Ayman¡ªbreaking her back, collecting bottles, just to keep us fed. Just to keep a roof over our heads! And you? You sit here, complaining about the cops like they¡¯re the ones ruining your life?"


    Ayman flinches, the weight of Karim¡¯s words hitting him like a physical blow. He looks down at his hands, the rage in his chest warring with the sting of guilt creeping into his stomach. But before he can respond, Karim¡¯s voice surges again, louder this time, fueled by a well of anger that seems endless.


    "You think you¡¯ve had it tough? You think you¡¯re the only one who¡¯s suffered?" Karim¡¯s voice dips lower, a growl that is as much sorrow as it is fury. "Our father drowned trying to escape this life, Ayman. Drowned, chasing some dream of fairness in Italy. He abandoned us, left us to pick up the pieces, to fend for ourselves! And I had to step up. I had to take care of you while Mom worked herself into the ground, while she aged faster than anyone should have to!"


    Karim¡¯s words hang in the air like a cloud of smoke, thick and suffocating. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, his anger bleeding into something deeper, something more vulnerable.


    "And now you¡¯re sitting here," he says, his voice quieter but no less biting, "crying about unfairness like you¡¯ve had it worse than anyone else. Like you¡¯ve carried the weight of this family on your back. What the hell is that, Ayman?!"


    For a moment, the car is filled only with the sound of their labored breathing. The streetlights outside blur past them, the city an indifferent witness to the brothers¡¯ storm. Ayman doesn¡¯t respond, his throat tight, his mind a whirlwind of anger, guilt, and shame.


    Karim¡¯s words strike like daggers, each syllable cutting deeper into Ayman¡¯s defenses. They hang in the air, sharp and unyielding, leaving no room for rebuttal. Ayman¡¯s gaze drops, his defiance faltering under the weight of his brother¡¯s fury. His chest tightens, the burn of unspoken guilt creeping up his spine. For the first time since their argument began, the unshakable anger in his heart wavers.


    The dim light of the dashboard casts shadows across Karim¡¯s face, highlighting the lines of tension etched into his features. His hands remain firmly gripped on the steering wheel, the knuckles bone-white against the worn leather. He exhales shakily, trying to wrestle control of his emotions, but the tremor in his voice betrays the storm still raging within.


    "So don¡¯t you dare," Karim begins, his voice low and hoarse, trembling with the strain of years of pent-up frustration. "Don¡¯t you dare sit there and tell me about unfairness."


    His eyes flick briefly toward Ayman, a mixture of anger and heartbreak swirling in his gaze. It¡¯s not just rage fueling his words¡ªit¡¯s pain, disappointment, and the unbearable weight of sacrifice.


    "We¡¯ve been fighting our whole damn lives, Ayman," Karim continues, his tone growing steadier but no less intense. His words carry the burden of a man who has shouldered more than his share of the world¡¯s cruelty. "And for what? For you to turn around and throw it all away, like it means nothing? Like everything we¡¯ve done, everything Mom has done, was just some pointless struggle?"Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The car feels stifling, the weight of their shared history pressing down on them like a leaden fog. Ayman glances at Karim, his lips parting as if to respond, but no words come. His throat feels constricted, the lump of guilt and shame refusing to dislodge.


    Karim leans back slightly, his grip on the wheel loosening but his shoulders still taut. He stares ahead, his jaw clenched, the rhythmic hum of the car engine the only sound cutting through the tense silence.


    The air between them is thick with unspoken words, a chasm of resentment and love that neither knows how to bridge. Ayman swallows hard, the ache in his chest growing, but he says nothing, the silence heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.


    The words hang in the air between them, a heavy silence falling as the car continues to roll down the empty streets. Ayman doesn¡¯t know how to respond. His anger is still there, but now it¡¯s mixed with a growing sense of shame, the realization of the sacrifices his mother and brother have made for him. He looks out the window, not knowing what to say.


    The car rolls quietly through the dimly lit streets of Tunisia. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the cracked pavement and the faded buildings that line the road. Karim¡¯s hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are pale, his jaw clenched as the weight of his emotions presses down on him. He doesn¡¯t speak. The silence between him and Ayman is thick, suffocating, and for the first time in a long while, Karim doesn¡¯t know how to break it.


    Ayman, sitting in the passenger seat, hasn¡¯t said a word since the explosion of anger moments ago. His silence is like a wall, and Karim feels every inch of it. He doesn¡¯t understand how things got so bad between them, how they ended up in this mess. His eyes flicker over to Ayman once more, but the younger man is staring out of the window, his face unreadable, as if the words still hang heavy between them.


    Karim¡¯s eyes shift to the road ahead, but his mind is elsewhere. He can¡¯t shake the thought of Ayman¡¯s words¡ªthe way he threw out the idea of fairness as if it was some abstract concept, something beyond reach. It cuts deeper than Karim lets on. He breathes in, slow and steady, trying to calm the storm inside him. But as the car moves forward, the streets around him begin to blur, and his mind drifts back to everything that¡¯s brought them here.


    The streets of Tunisia stretch out before him¡ªsmall, narrow roads that he¡¯s driven a thousand times before. But tonight, they look different, as if they¡¯re a reflection of everything that¡¯s wrong in his life. The houses are rundown, the streets littered with trash, and the air, thick with the heat of the night, feels stifling. Karim¡¯s thoughts spiral back to his childhood, to the days when they lived without a father. He remembers how, after their father disappeared, it was just him and his mother, scraping by, trying to make a life in a world that had already turned its back on them.


    He watches the familiar sights¡ªthe old market square, the faded streetlights casting long shadows on the cracked sidewalks¡ªand something in him twists. It all feels so broken, so lost. But what hurts more than the brokenness of the city, what hurts more than the lack of opportunities, is the way his brother, his own flesh and blood, can¡¯t see the truth.


    Karim shakes his head, his lips tight with frustration. He¡¯s tired, so tired of the hopelessness that seeps through everything around him. He looks at the streets, the faces of people trudging through their lives, and he wonders how many of them have given up hope. How many of them just go along, accepting their fate, like his brother?


    His eyes narrow as he thinks about Ayman¡¯s words. Unfairness. As if it¡¯s all just some cruel twist of fate, something they have no control over. Karim¡¯s grip on the steering wheel tightens even more as his thoughts race. What does Ayman think? That this world owes him something? That because things have been tough, the world should just hand him an easy way out? Karim¡¯s heart pounds in his chest, and his mind rages.


    But then, as the car rounds a corner, Karim¡¯s gaze falls on a dilapidated building¡ªa crumbling, empty structure where once, long ago, there were families, children running through the streets, people who lived with hope. Now, it¡¯s just a shell, forgotten and ignored. Karim¡¯s thoughts slow for a moment as he stares at it, remembering how, when they were young, it was a place full of life.


    He exhales sharply, his grip on the wheel loosening just a bit. He knows he can¡¯t save the whole world, but damn it, he¡¯s been trying to save his brother. He¡¯s been trying to drag Ayman out of the darkness, out of the mess he¡¯s gotten himself into. But how can he do that when Ayman refuses to see it?


    The car takes a left turn, and the familiar sight of their old house comes into view. Karim¡¯s chest tightens as he slows the car to a stop. The house is modest, small but solid, a roof over their heads, something they fought for, even when everything else felt impossible. It¡¯s not much, but it¡¯s theirs. He glances over at Ayman, still lost in his thoughts, staring out of the window. Karim¡¯s jaw clenches again, a mixture of anger, frustration, and disappointment swirling inside him.


    As the engine hums quietly, Karim takes a deep breath, looking out at the house. This place, this city, this life¡ªit¡¯s all he knows. He¡¯s fought for it, and he¡¯ll keep fighting. But right now, he can¡¯t help but wonder: will Ayman ever see it the way he does? Will he ever realize that it¡¯s not about fairness; it¡¯s about surviving, about making something out of the nothing that life gives you?


    Karim slams the car into park and kills the engine, his fingers still trembling slightly on the wheel. He exhales slowly, the weight of the night settling on him. He looks at Ayman again, silently hoping that somewhere deep down, his brother still has it in him to see the truth.


    The car had barely come to a stop before the front door of the house burst open. Ayman¡¯s mother, her face pale and filled with worry, stood in the doorway, her hands clutching the edges of the frame. As soon as her eyes locked on Ayman, the floodgates opened. Without a word, without hesitation, she sprinted toward him, her feet pounding the ground in a desperate rush to reach her son.


    Ayman barely had time to get out of the car before his mother was there, her arms wrapping around him in a protective embrace. Her face was wet with tears, and her breath came in ragged gasps as she clung to him.


    "Ayman, Ayman, are you okay? Are you okay, my son? What happened? Tell me!" Her voice cracked, raw with fear and love, as she pulled him close, almost as if she couldn¡¯t believe he was standing there in front of her, alive.


    Ayman stood frozen for a moment, the weight of her touch sinking in. For a second, he felt like a little boy again, small and fragile in his mother¡¯s arms. But the harsh reality of the world, of everything that had just happened, washed over him, and he pulled away gently, trying to give her some space.


    "I¡¯m fine, mom. I¡¯m fine. Please... I¡¯m okay." His voice was steady, but his eyes told another story. He wasn¡¯t okay. He was far from okay. But he couldn¡¯t bring himself to say it, not to her. She had enough to worry about already. He could see the fear in her eyes, the way her hands trembled as she reached for him again, her expression torn between relief and terror.


    As she held onto him once more, people began to gather around the house, their whispers filling the air. Faces appeared at the windows, peering out into the street, their eyes wide with concern. A few of the neighbors came forward, faces etched with worry, their expressions dark with the same anxiety that Ayman¡¯s mother felt.


    "Ayman, are you okay? What happened?" one of the older men called out, his voice heavy with sympathy.


    Ayman¡¯s childhood friend, Malik, pushed his way through the small crowd, his expression a mix of anger and fear. He was tall, with rough hands that had known hard work, but his eyes now carried something softer¡ªconcern for his friend.


    "What happened to you, Ayman? Tell me, what happened? I¡¯ll... I¡¯ll make them pay. You tell me who did this. Who hurt you?" Malik¡¯s voice trembled with emotion, the loyalty in his words clear as he clenched his fists, ready to take action.


    The crowd shifted, murmurs spreading like wildfire. People who had known Ayman his entire life, who had watched him grow up, were gathering around him now, their faces filled with sorrow and pity. It was clear they all cared for him, but there was a deep sadness in their eyes too.


    Ayman felt the weight of their stares, the pity that hung in the air like a cloud. It was all too much. The anger that had simmered inside him from earlier began to rise again, but this time it wasn¡¯t directed at his brother or the police¡ªit was aimed at the world that had always seen him as a failure. He was supposed to be someone, to be more than this, but here he was, in the same place he had always been¡ªbroken, lost.


    His mother, her hands still clutching him, pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his face for any sign that he was truly okay. Her expression softened, but there was an undeniable ache in her gaze.


    "Ayman, I know... I know things aren¡¯t easy. But you¡¯re my son. You¡¯re good. You are good. No matter what the world tells you." Her words were whispered, almost to herself, as she pressed a kiss to his forehead, her fingers gently brushing the dirt from his skin.


    Ayman swallowed hard, nodding slightly as he stood there, letting her words wash over him. He didn¡¯t know how to tell her that he didn¡¯t feel good, that he was far from it. But for her sake, he just nodded, forcing a small smile onto his face.


    "I¡¯m fine, Mom. Please. Let¡¯s go inside." His voice was strained, his emotions in turmoil, but he took a deep breath and turned to walk into the house, his mother close behind him.


    As they entered, the crowd slowly dispersed, the whispers trailing off into the night. But Ayman could still feel their eyes on him, could still hear the unspoken judgment, the silent pity.


    Inside, Karim stood by the door, his arms crossed, watching his mother with a pained expression. He said nothing as she passed, but the tension in the room was palpable. Ayman glanced at him, then looked away, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him again.


    His mother, who had sacrificed so much for them, who had worked herself to the bone to give them a better life, was holding onto him as if he were still the little boy she had protected all those years ago. But Ayman knew something had changed. He had crossed a line, a point of no return, and he wasn¡¯t sure if he could ever go back.


    But for now, in this moment, he was her son, and she was his mother. And that was enough to make him feel, if only for a fleeting moment, that he wasn¡¯t completely lost.

 Chapter 4: The Heart of A Hitman

    Ayman took the salami from his mother, his mind still heavy with the events of the day. He hadn¡¯t eaten much, but the hunger in his stomach felt distant, almost forgotten. His mother¡¯s insistence was clear, but he just needed a moment, a break from everything. ¡°I¡¯ll eat later,¡± he muttered, more to himself than to her, before heading upstairs to the rooftop.


    As he walked through the narrow hallway of the house, the voices of Karim and his wife reached him through the walls. Their words were muffled but clear enough to make out the tension in their conversation.


    "What if he does it again, Karim?" His wife¡¯s voice was anxious, filled with a kind of frustration. "You can¡¯t keep protecting him like this. He¡¯s pushing you to the edge."


    Ayman paused for a moment, his hand resting on the doorframe as he stood still, listening. He heard Karim¡¯s response, low and defensive, but he couldn¡¯t make out the words. He didn¡¯t need to. He could feel the weight of the conversation, the silent judgment.


    Ayman¡¯s heart tightened, but he quickly shook it off. He didn¡¯t want to think about them anymore. He had to get away, even if it was just for a few minutes.


    With a quiet sigh, he pushed open the door to the rooftop, the cool night air brushing against his face. The soft rustle of the wind mixed with the distant hum of the city, but here, above it all, it felt a little quieter. He walked toward the corner where his cats always slept, nestled in a cozy spot near the roof¡¯s edge.


    The little kittens were sprawled out, their fur soft and fluffy, their tiny bodies curled up against the chill. As Ayman approached, one of them stirred, blinking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. He smiled softly, kneeling down to place the salami by their side.


    "Hey, you cuties," he whispered, his voice soft and full of affection, a stark contrast to the hardened tone he¡¯d used earlier. "You¡¯ve grown so big. Soon, you¡¯ll be tigers, huh? Protecting me from all the bad stuff."


    The kittens purred and mewed in response, rubbing up against his hand as he gently fed them. He chuckled quietly, the sound a rare moment of warmth in the otherwise tense air. He scratched behind their ears, feeling their small bodies shift beneath his touch.


    "Look at you," he continued, his voice a little steadier now. "You¡¯re going to be strong. You¡¯ll keep me safe. I know you will."


    The little ones nuzzled into his palm, their tiny faces full of trust, and Ayman felt a flicker of something he hadn¡¯t felt in a long time¡ªpeace. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was enough to make the noise in his head quiet for a moment.


    He leaned back against the roof, eyes focused on the stars above as he watched the kittens play with each other, their tiny paws batting at the pieces of salami he¡¯d placed for them. For a moment, everything else disappeared¡ªthe anger, the guilt, the frustration with his life. It was just him and the cats, and in that moment, Ayman let himself be nothing but a man, caring for the small creatures that depended on him.


    His thoughts drifted, soft and almost hopeful, as he watched the kittens grow more playful. Maybe, just maybe, he could still find something to protect in this world. Maybe these little guys could teach him something about surviving, about caring, even when the world seemed bent on breaking him.


    "Yeah," he whispered to the night, his voice barely audible. "Maybe you guys are the only ones who get me."


    Ayman sat on the rooftop, the cool night air brushing against his face as he exhaled the smoke from his cigarette. The stars above were barely visible through the haze of the city lights, but he didn¡¯t mind. His thoughts drifted, a mix of anger and exhaustion, his mind replaying the conversation with Karim, his mother¡¯s worried face, and the weight of everything he had just gone through. The sound of the city hummed below him, distant but constant.


    As he took another drag, the sharp ring of his phone broke through the quiet. It was his friend, Sami.


    "Yo, Ayman, come out; let¡¯s have some drinks! Come on, man, we¡¯re waiting for you."


    Ayman glanced at the phone, letting out a soft chuckle. His friends never let him rest. But maybe this was what he needed. A distraction. A chance to forget, even if for just a moment. He ran his hand through his hair, then texted back.


    "Okay, I¡¯ll eat and be there in a bit."


    He made his way back downstairs, walking into the kitchen where his mother had already gone to bed. He ate quickly, barely tasting the food, and then left the house, heading toward the small gathering spot near the street where his friends usually hung out. It was late, almost midnight, and the street was quieter than usual, but the sound of distant laughter and the clink of bottles could be heard as he approached.


    Sami was the first to see him, waving him over with a grin. His friend was already holding a bottle of siltia, the familiar Tunisian drink that burned its way down, a comfort of sorts to Ayman.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "Ah, there he is! Come on, bro, we got the good stuff!" Sami grinned, handing him a bottle.


    Ayman took it without hesitation, unscrewing the cap and taking a long swig. The burn of the alcohol hit his throat, making him feel momentarily alive in the haze of everything else.


    "So, tell me," Sami said, leaning back on the worn-out crate they used as a seat, "what happened today? We heard about the cops. You good?"


    Ayman paused for a moment, the buzz from the alcohol beginning to cloud his mind. He glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. His other friend, Nadir, had just joined them, settling in next to Sami.


    "Yeah," Ayman said, his voice steady now, a shift from the vulnerable man he had been earlier. "I¡¯m good. But let me tell you what happened. Those cops¡ªman, they were begging me not to do anything."


    His friends leaned in, eyes wide, hanging on to every word as Ayman crafted his story, weaving it into something larger than it was.


    "I kicked their asses, you know?" Ayman said, his voice growing more confident with each word. "They tried to get me, but I wasn¡¯t having it. I was cursing them out, right in their faces. They didn¡¯t know what to do, man. They were scared."


    Sami and Nadir exchanged a quick glance, their mouths dropping open.


    "No way," Sami said, laughing. "You really did that?"


    Ayman nodded, trying to mask the flicker of guilt that rose inside him. This wasn¡¯t how it went, but in this moment, he didn¡¯t care. He was tired of being the kid who never stood up for himself. He was tired of feeling weak. He was going to be the tough guy now. He was going to be the man they¡¯d look up to.


    "Yeah, I told them to back off. Told them they didn¡¯t scare me. I wasn¡¯t going to let them push me around anymore."


    Nadir laughed, slapping Ayman on the back. "That¡¯s my boy," he said. "You¡¯re a real badass, Ayman. Always knew you had it in you."


    Ayman smirked, taking another swig of the siltia. The more they bought into his story, the more it fed the anger he felt inside. He wasn¡¯t going to be the weak one anymore. He wasn¡¯t going to be the victim. Not anymore.


    Sami, still grinning, grabbed the bottle from Ayman¡¯s hand and took a drink for himself. "Man, that¡¯s crazy," he said. "You got the balls to do it, though. The cops? Respect, man. You¡¯re a real one."


    Ayman leaned back, his chest swelling with pride. His friends saw him as something he wasn¡¯t, and it felt good. It felt damn good. For once, he didn¡¯t feel like the one who always got pushed around. For once, he was in control of the story.


    "You should¡¯ve seen it," Ayman continued, a lie spinning effortlessly off his tongue. "I was about to go at them, but then they just backed off. They knew I wasn¡¯t playing around. They knew they were out of their league."


    His friends nodded, clearly impressed, and Ayman felt a sense of power, a fleeting victory over everything that had been dragging him down.


    As the night wore on, the conversation drifted, but Ayman stayed silent, lost in his thoughts. They kept drinking, the laughter ringing through the night, and for the first time in a while, Ayman felt something close to relief. The weight of his lies didn¡¯t feel as heavy, at least not here, with his friends around. In this moment, he was somebody.


    Ayman was in the middle of laughing at one of Sami¡¯s jokes when his attention was suddenly drawn to a group of girls passing by. They looked tired, their faces drawn from a long day of work. They were workers from the nearby factory, coming home after hours of labor, their footsteps heavy on the street. But one of them caught his eye. It was Yasmin, his neighbor. She had always been friendly, but tonight, she looked exhausted.


    "Wait, Yasmin?" Ayman called out, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation. He felt a strange pull to her, a sense of something real, something untouched by the night¡¯s lies and alcohol.


    Yasmin looked up, her eyes brightening a little as she recognized him. She stopped and walked toward him, her footsteps slow, as if each one took effort.


    "Ayman, are you okay?" she asked, concern immediately flooding her face. She was shaking slightly, her body clearly feeling the weight of the long day. "What happened to your face? Are you alright?"


    Ayman quickly brushed it off with a half-smile, though he knew he wasn¡¯t fooling anyone. His friends watched from a distance, their murmurs and jokes starting.


    "Oh, no, I¡¯m fine. Just had a little fight, you know, a bar fight. Kicked some guy¡¯s ass, nothing major," Ayman said casually, trying to sound tougher than he felt. He stepped a little away from his friends, wanting this moment with Yasmin to feel more personal, to separate himself from the lies and the drinking.


    His friends, still watching from a distance, snickered. Sami made a loud, teasing remark.


    "Oh, look at Ayman, going to talk to his lover!"


    Ayman rolled his eyes, but the teasing only made him more determined to maintain his composure in front of Yasmin. Another one of his friends laughed.


    "Yeah, right, ''friends'' with a big ass!"


    Ayman ignored them, his focus solely on Yasmin. He gave a small wave, signaling to his friends to knock it off, before turning back to her.


    Yasmin didn¡¯t seem to notice or care about the teasing. Her concern was genuine, and it softened Ayman, even in his intoxicated state. She stepped closer, looking him up and down, her eyes scanning his face carefully.


    "Ayman, you really don¡¯t look okay. Are you sure you¡¯re alright?" She asked again, her voice laced with worry.


    Ayman nodded quickly, though the tiredness in his voice betrayed his efforts. "I¡¯ll be fine. Really, just a bar fight, nothing serious. Don¡¯t worry about me."


    Yasmin still seemed unsure, but she pulled out her wallet and handed him a few crumpled bills. "Here," she said, pressing the 10 dinars into his hand. "Buy some food for your kittens, okay? They need to be taken care of. Make sure they¡¯re alright."


    Ayman blinked in surprise, his fingers wrapping around the money. It was a simple gesture, but it meant more than he expected.


    "Thanks, Yasmin," he said, his voice softening. "I will, I promise. I¡¯ll take care of them."


    Yasmin gave him a small smile, her eyes warm with kindness. "I¡¯m serious, Ayman. Don¡¯t let yourself get hurt, okay?" She stepped back, her shoulders heavy from her day, but still, she looked at him as though she saw more than just the tough guy fa?ade he had built.


    Ayman watched her walk away, feeling a pang of something unfamiliar stir inside him. He tucked the 10 dinars into his pocket and turned back toward his friends, who were still laughing and joking. He wasn¡¯t ready to go back to the lies just yet, not after that moment with Yasmin.


    As he approached, Sami slapped him on the back with a grin. "So, what did she say, huh? You gonna get that girl?"


    Ayman gave him a smirk but didn¡¯t reply. His mind was elsewhere, focused on the simplicity of Yasmin¡¯s kindness. She saw him¡ªjust him, not the image he was trying to create. For a moment, he felt a little bit more human.

 Chapter 5: Liquor Of Dreams

    The three boys sat cross-legged on the cracked pavement near Ayman¡¯s home, their laughter punctuating the stillness of the Tunisian midnight. The bottle of Celtia sat half-empty between them, its sharp fumes mingling with the faint, salty breeze from the distant sea. Ayman took a swig, his head tilted back, and then handed the bottle to Nadir, who was grinning ear to ear, his words slightly slurred but brimming with excitement.


    ¡°You know,¡± Nadir began, wiping his mouth, ¡°Ahmed, my neighbor, he made it. He¡¯s in Italy now! He¡¯s staying with my brother. He finally met him!¡±


    Ayman leaned in, his interest piqued. ¡°Ahmed? Seriously? And your brother? How¡¯s he doing?¡±


    Nadir puffed out his chest with pride. ¡°He¡¯s doing great! Ahmed told me he¡¯s working at a restaurant, making good money. My brother¡¯s even saving up to open his own place someday.¡±


    ¡°Lucky bastard,¡± Ayman muttered, shaking his head. ¡°If I had the money, I¡¯d be on a boat tomorrow. No more of this life.¡±


    Nadir smirked, taking another sip. ¡°You don¡¯t need that much. I know someone. He can help with the transportation. It¡¯s risky, sure, but it works. I just need to save up, and soon, I¡¯ll be there with my brother.¡±


    Ayman¡¯s eyes lit up, a glimmer of hope cutting through the haze of alcohol. ¡°Then count me in. I¡¯ll do the same. Italy sounds like the dream. Work hard, make money, send some back to Mama... maybe even start something big here when I return.¡±


    Sami, who had been listening in silence, suddenly shook his head and spoke firmly. ¡°Not me. I¡¯d rather stay here, keep working, and go abroad legally. I¡¯ll get my experience, then maybe go to France. But not like this, sneaking on a boat.¡±


    Nadir scoffed, rolling his eyes. ¡°Oh, come on, Sami. Keep working as a medical assistant? And what will you get? A slap to the face when someone¡¯s family attacks you at the hospital because their relative died? Or when they don¡¯t like the test results? That¡¯s your future here.¡±


    Ayman laughed, patting Sami on the back. ¡°Nadir¡¯s right. You know how it is in the public hospitals. You¡¯ll just end up frustrated, broke, and dealing with everyone¡¯s nonsense.¡±


    Sami straightened up, his tone unwavering. ¡°I don¡¯t care. I¡¯m determined. I want a good, honest future. I¡¯ve been learning French for years. I¡¯ll go to France and find work there. It¡¯s better than risking my life on some boat.¡±


    Ayman burst into laughter, throwing his head back dramatically. ¡°France? Are you serious? Man, they don¡¯t want us there. And besides, France sucks. You¡¯ll end up eating croissants alone and paying crazy taxes. Here, let me speak your fancy French.¡± He exaggeratedly mimicked a French accent. ¡°Oui...baguette...bonjour!¡±


    Nadir joined in, slapping his knee as he laughed. ¡°Mon ami! Monsieur Sami! Don¡¯t forget your beret!¡±


    Even Sami couldn¡¯t help but smile at their antics, though he quickly sobered. ¡°Laugh all you want. But the problem isn¡¯t France; it¡¯s us. Our government, our corruption, the way things are run here¡ªthat¡¯s why people are stuck. I don¡¯t care about the past. I just want a chance at a good life.¡±


    Nadir leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. ¡°And I¡¯ll get that good life too. Italy is the land of opportunity. I¡¯ll work hard, make money, and come back a king! You¡¯ll see. I¡¯ll buy a football team right here in the city and name it after myself.¡±


    Ayman raised his bottle in mock toast. ¡°And I¡¯ll be the richest man in the neighborhood. I¡¯ll buy all the houses, fix them up, and sell them. I¡¯ll change this place, man. Help the people here.¡±


    They laughed together, the dreams spilling from their lips as freely as the Celtia from the bottle. Each of them painted their own version of the future¡ªa fantasy of wealth, escape, and transformation. The night stretched on, their voices echoing in the quiet streets.


    For a moment, the weight of their struggles seemed distant. Under the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp, three young men dreamed, laughed, and drank, their hopes soaring high above the crumbling city they called home.


    The air grew heavier as Sami leaned forward, his gaze steady. The slight slur of his words from the drink didn¡¯t mask the seriousness of his tone. ¡°Nadir has a brother in Italy. What about you, Ayman? How are you going to survive there? And are you really willing to leave your mom behind? Your brother is doing well here. He¡¯s a respected cop in the neighborhood. He found his way, so why can¡¯t you? Why throw all of that away just to chase a dream across the sea?¡±


    Ayman froze mid-sip, lowering the bottle slowly. His jaw clenched, and the flicker of annoyance in his eyes quickly turned to fury. Slamming the bottle down, he spat out his words with venom. ¡°My brother? My brother?¡± He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. ¡°You think I give a damn about him? He¡¯s not some hero, Sami. He¡¯s just another guy playing by the rules, living in a system that¡¯ll never let us get ahead.¡±


    Sami tried to interject, but Ayman cut him off, his voice rising with every word. ¡°I don¡¯t want his life. I don¡¯t want to live in anyone¡¯s shadow, especially not his. Everyone looks at me and says, ¡®Oh, that¡¯s Karim¡¯s little brother. He¡¯s good. He¡¯s smart. He¡¯s respectable.¡¯ I¡¯m sick of it! I don¡¯t care about being ¡®good.¡¯ Good doesn¡¯t get you respect. Good doesn¡¯t make you rich. And good sure as hell won¡¯t change this shithole we live in!¡±


    The tension hung thick in the air as Ayman suddenly stood, pacing back and forth. His voice trembled, not just with anger but with the pain buried deep within. ¡°Do you know why I want to go to Italy? Why I need to go? Because my father tried to do the same. He wanted to change our lives. He wanted to escape this mess and give us something better. But he never made it. He drowned, Sami. He drowned when I was just a kid.¡±


    Ayman¡¯s voice cracked, his fists clenching as he turned to face them. ¡°That¡¯s why he left us. He wasn¡¯t a coward. He wasn¡¯t selfish. He wanted a new life, and if he hadn¡¯t died, maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªI wouldn¡¯t be sitting here right now, drinking Celtia with you two and cursing this damn life!¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The words echoed in the stillness of the night, the rawness of Ayman¡¯s pain leaving his friends silent. He grabbed his jacket, his movements jerky, and muttered, ¡°Fuck this. I¡¯m done.¡± He turned to leave, his anger simmering as he took a step away.


    But Nadir was quick, jumping to his feet and grabbing Ayman by the arm. ¡°Hey, hey, hey! Come on, man. Don¡¯t go like this.¡± Nadir¡¯s voice was steady, soothing. ¡°We understand. We get it. Rest in peace to your dad, bro. He wanted the best for you. And look, now it¡¯s your turn. You can go to Italy, but this time it¡¯ll be different. You¡¯ll make it safely. You¡¯ll succeed. But for tonight, just stay with us, alright? We¡¯re your brothers too. Sit down.¡±


    Sami, still shaken, nodded. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for asking, Ayman. I didn¡¯t mean to stir things up. You¡¯re right¡ªyou deserve to build your own life, your own way.¡±


    Ayman hesitated, his chest heaving with the weight of emotions. But after a long pause, he exhaled sharply and sat back down, his anger slowly ebbing. He picked up the bottle, taking a long swig, and then suddenly smirked, breaking the heavy silence.


    ¡°You know,¡± he said, his tone lighter now, ¡°I¡¯ll have to leave Yassmine behind too. She¡¯s a sweet girl, but I¡¯ll find myself an Italian woman. Big boobs, blonde hair¡ªlike the ones in the movies.¡± He grinned mischievously. ¡°Sad, huh?¡±


    Nadir barked out a laugh, slapping Ayman on the back. ¡°You? With an Italian model? You¡¯ll need more than money for that, bro.¡±


    Sami chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°Yeah, you¡¯d better brush up on your Italian first. What¡¯s that word again? ¡®Pizza¡¯? ¡®Pasta¡¯?¡±


    The tension melted away as the three boys erupted into laughter, their camaraderie restoring the warmth of the moment. They leaned back, the alcohol softening the edges of their frustrations, as the conversation turned to lighthearted jokes about Italian women and their imagined lives abroad.


    The bottle of Celtia passed between them until the first light of dawn began to creep over the rooftops. Their dreams, their pain, and their hopes mingled with the rising sun, leaving a bittersweet mark on a night they would remember long after the Celtia¡¯s burn faded.


    The morning air carried the remnants of last night¡¯s cool breeze, but the rising sun threatened to bring the oppressive heat of the day. Ayman walked alone down the quiet streets of his neighborhood, the faint buzz of alcohol still coursing through his veins. The laughter and dreams of the night had faded into a hazy memory, replaced by a dull ache in his head and the heavy fatigue settling into his body.


    It was just past 7 a.m., and the streets, though not bustling, showed signs of life. Ayman rubbed his eyes, scanning the familiar roads with their chipped curbs and scattered bits of trash. The early risers of the neighborhood were already out¡ªmen and women dressed in modest clothes, heading to jobs they couldn¡¯t afford to miss, even on a Sunday. He found it strange yet admirable; Sunday was meant to be a day of rest, yet these people were hustling to make ends meet.


    He stumbled slightly, catching his balance before greeting an older man sweeping the front of his small bakery. "Good morning, Uncle Brahim," Ayman called, his voice rough from the night of drinking.


    Uncle Brahim looked up, squinting at him before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Good morning, Ayman. Another long night, eh?"


    "Ah, you know how it is," Ayman replied, shrugging. "Just catching up with the guys. How¡¯s business?"


    "Same as always," Brahim replied, leaning on his broom. "No rest for the wicked, huh?"


    Ayman laughed dryly, nodding. "Yeah, no rest for us either."


    As he continued walking, he passed a young woman carrying a basket of bread, her pace hurried as she made her way toward the bus stop. She glanced at him briefly, and he offered a small wave. "Morning, Zahra. How¡¯s life treating you?"


    "Morning, Ayman. Same old, same old. Just trying to get through the day," she replied, her tone polite but distant.


    "Take care," Ayman said, watching her rush away. He thought briefly about her life, waking up early to make deliveries and help her family. It wasn¡¯t so different from his own struggles, yet he couldn¡¯t help but feel a pang of envy at her sense of purpose.


    Further down the street, Ayman stopped to chat with a small group of laborers gathered near a construction site. They looked tired, their faces lined with the weight of their work. He leaned against a lamppost, listening to their complaints about the rising cost of living and the lack of decent jobs.


    "One day, we¡¯ll all leave this place," Ayman said, his words slurring slightly. "Find something better. Italy, France, wherever. Just... not here."


    The men nodded, some muttering agreements before heading off to start their day. Ayman watched them go, their silhouettes framed by the pale light of the morning sun. His own exhaustion was starting to catch up with him, but he pressed on, determined to grab a pack of cigarettes before heading home.


    Finally, he reached the small grocery store near his house. The metal shutters were halfway open, and the shopkeeper, a wiry man in his fifties, was busy arranging crates of fresh produce outside.


    "Morning, Ayman," the man said without looking up. "You¡¯re up early. Or maybe you¡¯re just not in bed yet, huh?"


    "Something like that," Ayman replied with a weak smile. "Just need a pack of Marlboros, Haji."


    The shopkeeper nodded, grabbing a pack from the shelf behind him and placing it on the counter. "That¡¯ll be five dinars. You should get some rest, boy. You look like a ghost."


    Ayman handed over the money, pocketing the cigarettes and giving the man a small nod. "Thanks, Haji. Take it easy."


    With the cigarettes in hand, Ayman began the short walk back to his house. The streets were quieter now, the early workers having dispersed to their jobs. The faint hum of a radio playing Arabic music drifted from a nearby window, mingling with the distant sound of a rooster crowing.


    By the time Ayman reached the main house, the weight of the night had fully settled on him. His head throbbed, his legs felt heavy, and the slight spinning of the world made everything seem more surreal. The sun was rising higher, its pale light casting long shadows along the worn staircase leading to the upper floor.


    He opened the main door, stepping inside the shared entryway. Just as he approached his own door, he glanced up and froze. His sister-in-law, Karim¡¯s wife, was standing at the top of the stairs, a bucket and rag in hand, cleaning the dusty doorsteps outside her home. Her movements were sharp and purposeful, her expression hard as she glanced down and noticed him.


    Ayman tilted his head back, the alcohol still buzzing in his system. He forced a grin, though it came out crooked and tired. "Good night," he said, his voice slurring slightly. Then, as he glanced around and registered the growing daylight, he laughed softly to himself and corrected, "I mean... good morning. I hope... you will have day, good."


    His words tumbled out in a disjointed mess, his exhaustion and inebriation making it hard to string together a coherent sentence. She didn¡¯t respond. Instead, she gave him a withering glare¡ªa look that held nothing but disdain¡ªand without a word, turned back into her apartment. The door slammed shut behind her with a loud thud.


    Ayman watched her go, the corner of his mouth twitching in frustration. "Whatever, bitch," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to hear on the other side of the door. He stumbled into his own small apartment, letting the door creak shut behind him, the last shred of energy draining from his body.


    Upstairs, she heard the insult through the closed door, and anger boiled within her as she set the bucket down harder than she intended. Her hands trembled as she began preparing the morning coffee for Karim, the bitterness in her chest only adding to her resentment.


    Downstairs, Ayman collapsed onto his bed without bothering to take off his clothes, the old mattress groaning under his weight. His mind replayed the encounter briefly, but he dismissed it as unimportant, letting the dark tide of sleep pull him under.


    The faint smell of coffee brewing wafted through the house as the morning fully settled in, but for Ayman, the world was already fading into the stillness of his drunken slumber.