The polished smile of the reporter in front of his room was the final straw. It felt like a violation, a trespassing beyond any screen or public space, right into the last shred of his privacy.“No,” Zaid said, the word flat and final. Before the woman, Sarah, could launch into her reassuring spiel, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her calling after him from his doorway. He didn’t run, but his pace was a fast, determined march. He went straight to the headmaster’s office, bypassing the terrified assistant, and told Mr. Fadi what had happened—a reporter from a gossip magazine had infiltrated the student dormitories.The school’s reaction was swift and severe. Security was called. Sarah and her photographer colleague were escorted off the premises with a stern warning about trespassing. An email was sent to all staff and students reminding them of the media policy and the importance of safeguarding the school’s privacy. The institutional machinery had protected him, but it

The cafeteria hummed with its usual chaotic energy, a familiar backdrop that had recently become a minefield for Zaid. He sat with his usual cohort—Bassam quietly reviewing notes, Hosam shoveling down food before training, Karam meticulously arranging his meal for a picture, and Fares scrolling through his phone, disengaged. For a moment, it almost felt normal.The shift in the air was subtle at first. A group of Blue Card students, the academic elite who usually occupied their own privileged corner, began moving with a collective, swaggering purpose across the room. Their path led directly to Zaid’s table. Conversations nearby hushed.“Well, if it isn’t the school’s rising star,” said the one in front, a tall boy named Rami whom Zaid knew from the advanced science class. His smile was all polished enamel and false warmth. “Congratulations, Zaid.”Zaid eyed him warily. “For what?”“For making your way up,” another chimed in, a boy named Ameen. “We heard. The Blue Card is practically y

The frantic, humiliating chase through the school halls with a janitor’s stick left Zaid feeling more foolish than empowered. The hollow feeling had returned, now tinged with a deep sense of absurdity. He had tried to be a fighter, then a masculine powerhouse, and both attempts had ended in chaos. Retreating to his room, he felt adrift, unsure of what version of himself to even attempt next.The call came as he was staring blankly at a textbook, the words swimming on the page. It was from a number labeled “Sphinx Productions,” a name Khamees had saved after a vague inquiry a week prior. The voice on the other end was brisk and professional.“Zaid? This is Maya from Sphinx. We’re shooting a high-concept campaign tomorrow for ‘Eco-Warrior Wear,’ a new sustainable line. The client loved your authentic look. Are you available?”Still in his post-chase stupor, and feeling the gnawing need to be professional, to prove he could just do a job without it becoming a personal crisis, Zaid agreed

The celebration was a warm, tangible thing, so different from the digital noise that usually surrounded him.At home, his mother had transformed their modest apartment. The table groaned under the weight of his favorite dishes, maqluba, grape leaves, kabsa, it was a feast fit for a conquering hero.Sami and Zaid stared at the food, soon the awkwardness of their long silence dissolved in the shared triumph of good report cards. For a few hours, there were no cameras, no contracts, just the sound of laughter, his mother’s proud tears, and the simple, profound pleasure of being celebrated by the people who mattered most.After Sami retreated to his room and the dishes were washed, Zaid finally checked his phone. It vibrated with a sustained, joyful hum. Social media notifications cascaded down his screen, hundreds, then thousands of congratulatory messages on his post about the Blue Card. Among the sea of followers were verified blue ticks: famous Arab gaming streamers, lifestyle influe

The sleek, anonymous sedan Zaid had hired felt like a spaceship transporting him to another dimension. The driver had been given only an address in the gleaming Gulf District, a place of shimmering towers and silent wealth. The revelation about the Blue Card and Bassam’s unjust exclusion had cast a long shadow over everything, including the Players Meeting. Was this just another exclusive club for the “profitable,” or was it something else? The cold, clinical language of the system’s invitation offered no clues.He paid the driver and stepped out onto the immaculate sidewalk, facing the Al-Andalus Conference Center. It wasn’t a loud, public venue; it was a fortress of tinted glass and polished steel, whispering of private deals and high-level meetings. Alone, he felt acutely like an impostor, a teenager from a modest apartment block walking into the heart of corporate power.A man in a dark, tailored suit stood by a discreet side entrance, holding a tablet. As Zaid approached, the ma