The days of open warfare were over, but for Hazim, the quiet was a different kind of battle, one against inertia and a gnawing sense of uselessness.Then an offer came as a lifeline. An old friend from his university days, a man named Abu Abdullah who had always been more of a thinker than a fighter, had founded an independent magazine called Al_Mustaqbal. He reached out to Hazim."Your knowledge, your insight into the political landscape... it will be a great addition to our magazine." Abu Abdullah had said over coffee. "The way you see through the web of lies. The magazine needs that. You could be a very useful journalist."Hazim, who had been searching for an opportunity, was intrigued. The idea of wielding a pen again instead of a sword, of fighting with exposure and truth, appealed to the journalist part of him that had always simmered beneath the warrior's exterior. He accepted.His first major assignment was an investigation into the new government. It was a perfect fit. His rel

Ali and Fadi were making their way through the bustling afternoon streets, heading towards Hadi’s residence. The sun beat down on the dusty pavement, and their conversation was a low, anxious murmur about permits, liabilities, and the mountain of bureaucratic hurdles standing between them and their dream of a proper research foundation."Remember," Ali said, adjusting the strap of his worn satchel, "we just need his advice on structuring the entity. Nothing more.""Right," Fadi replied, his lawyerly mind already drafting clauses in his head. "A clean, legal framework. That’s the priority."They found Hadi not in a sterile office, but amidst the comforting chaos of his personal study at home. Books were stacked in precarious towers, and the air smelled of old paper and strong coffee. After the customary greetings and a shared cup, they laid out their predicament: their vision for a guild-sanctioned research institute was being suffocated by a tangle of legal and administrative red tape

The morning of Marwan’s wedding dawned bright and clear, the sky a pristine, optimistic blue. In the quiet bedroom at the grandparents' house, Marwan stood before the mirror, meticulously adjusting the collar of his Black Suit. The bandages were gone, replaced by a high-collared undershirt that concealed the fading, angry scar on his neck. For weeks, he had chafed against the doctors’ orders for complete rest. Every evening, when he thought no one was looking, he would perform slow, careful stretches, then light calisthenics, pushing his recovering body just to the edge of pain. He was determined not to look like a ghost in his wedding pictures. He wanted to look strong, healthy, and worthy of the woman who had waited for him.Hazim, who had caught him doing push-ups a week prior, had finally thrown his hands up in exasperation. “You are going to tear something vital, and then you’ll get married in a full-body cast,” he had warned, his tone a mixture of concern and frustration. “Th

The rhythmic, percussive sounds of controlled combat echoed through the cavernous training hall. For over an hour, the only dialogue between Hazim and Marwan had been grunts of effort, the shuffle of feet on worn mats, and the sharp exhalations that accompanied each strike and block. Their sparring session had evolved from the cautious dance of the previous day into something more fluid, more trusting. Marwan’s movements were gaining confidence, his body beginning to remember its old rhythms without the interference of conscious fear.Hazim, for his part, was a meticulous partner. He would press an attack, testing Marwan’s defenses, then allow an opening, coaching him through the counter. “Now, pivot! Don’t just swing, use the momentum! Good! Again!”They moved in a tight circle, the sweat flying from their brows. Hazim saw an opportunity, a slight overextension in Marwan’s guard as he threw a right cross. It was the perfect teaching moment to demonstrate a parry and a throw. The mov

The silence in the house after Haneen left was a physical presence, a thick, accusing fog that seemed to mute even the ticking of the wall clock. Ali sat at the worktable for a long time, staring at the hairpin in his palm, its simple metal feeling like the only tangible connection to the life he was letting slip away. The grand designs, the urgent missions, all of it felt suddenly hollow, a castle built on sand that was washing away with the tide of his wife’s tears.He needed an anchor. With a hand that trembled slightly, he picked up his phone. He didn’t call Fadi, who would have offered pragmatic, unemotional advice. He didn’t call Hadi, who would have seen it as a distracting personnel issue. He scrolled to the contact simply labeled “Mom” and pressed call.It rang three times before her voice, warm and laced with the slight static of a poor connection to the old neighborhood, filled his ear. “Ali, habibi? Is everything alright? It’s late.”Just the sound of her concern was enoug