Laith noticed him at the bus station. A man in a grey jacket, standing too still, reading a newspaper that never turned a page. Ordinary, maybe, to anyone else. But Laith had been trained to see what others missed.He boarded the bus heading north, taking a seat near the back. The man in grey followed, sitting three rows ahead, his back to Laith. Too close to be coincidence. Too deliberate to be random.Laith's mind raced through his options. He had no armor—his bag contained the pieces, but he couldn't assemble them here, on a crowded bus, without causing panic. He had no backup—his team was scattered, and Hazem was in hiding, and Ali was with Haneen and the baby, and Hadi would just yell at him again.He could lead the tail away from the city. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could fight.The bus rumbled through the outskirts of Askalan, past the last clusters of buildings, into the open countryside. Laith watched the landscape through the window—hills, olive groves, the occasional far

Abu Saleh leaned on as he shuffled through the door. His face was a map of wrinkles, each line etched by decades of laughter and sorrow, of patience and prayer. His eyes, though clouded with age, still held a sharpness that missed nothing.Laith's grandfather had arrived.Abu Saleh set down the bag of fresh oranges he had brought and surveyed the room—the bandages, the monitors, the young man in the bed who was trying very hard to look like he wasn't in pain."You look terrible," Abu Saleh said. His voice was soft, warm, the voice of a man who had raised children and grandchildren with gentle hands and gentle words."I'm fine, Jiddo," Laith replied, managing a smile. "It looks worse than it is."Abu Saleh approached the bed and took Laith's bandaged hand in his own leathery palms. He examined the wrappings, the swelling, the careful work of the doctors."They say you almost lost your fingers.""They say a lot of things."Abu Saleh looked up, and his eyes held no accusation, no anger.

Hadi's phone buzzed at 2 AM. He was still awake, staring at maps and intelligence reports, trying to piece together the pattern that kept eluding him. The caller ID made his heart stop.Hazem."Hazem. What happened?" Hadi's voice was sharp, demanding.There was a pause on the other end, then Hazem's voice—weak, but alive. "There was a bombing. At the train station in Cairo. I was there."Hadi's grip tightened on the phone. "Were you hurt?""Concussion. Cracked ribs. A few cuts. Nothing permanent.""And the ghoul? The one you were tracking?""Gone. Either it set off the bomb or it was caught in it. I don't know. I lost consciousness before I could find out."Hadi closed his eyes, counting to ten in his head. When he spoke again, his voice was ice."You went to a train station. In a foreign country. Alone. Following a ghoul you had already barely escaped from. Without telling anyone where you were going o

The taxi dropped Hazem in Ramallah at dawn. His ribs ached with every breath. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat. But he didn't go home. He didn't go to the safe house. He didn't even stop to change out of the clothes he had been wearing for two days. He went straight to Ali's apartment. The building was quiet at this hour, the streets empty, the only light the soft glow of a streetlamp flickering in the morning mist. Hazem climbed the stairs slowly, gripping the railing, forcing his body to move when all it wanted was to collapse. He knocked on Ali's door—three quick raps, the signal they had used for years. The door opened. Ali stood in the doorway, his hair disheveled, his eyes tired. Behind him, the apartment was dark, Haneen and the baby still asleep. "Hazem?" Ali's voice was sharp with concern. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in hiding." "I need to show you something." Hazem pushed past him into the apartment, heading for the small office where Ali

The presidential palace in Ariha was designed to intimidate. High ceilings, polished marble floors, walls adorned with portraits of past leaders who had all shared the same cold, calculating gaze. The press conference room was packed—journalists from across the region, cameras pointed at the podium, lights bright enough to make the speakers sweat.President Bin Zahid stood behind the podium, his expression calm, almost bored. He wore a dark suit, a white shirt, a tie the color of blood. His beard was trimmed with meticulous care. His hands rested on the podium, still and confident.Behind him stood his generals, his ministers, his advisors—a wall of authority designed to remind everyone who was in charge.The room fell silent as Bin Zahid leaned toward the microphone."Ladies and gentlemen. Citizens of the Northern Federation. Thank you for being here today."His voice was smooth, warm, almost fatherly. He looked at the cameras as if he were speaking to each person individually."In r