The transition from the chilled, silent opulence of the Al-Andalus Center to the chaotic, sensory assault of the old souq was jarring. One moment they were in a hired car gliding through manicured districts, the next they were plunged into a labyrinth of narrow alleys throbbing with life, the air thick with the scent of spices, incense, and centuries of dust. Imran moved with a purpose that belied his age, weaving through the crowds with Zaid scrambling to keep up.“What are we even looking for?” Zaid asked, ducking under a low-hanging rug.“Something old. Something with a story that isn’t being told properly. The quest isn’t about finding a real treasure; it’s about finding a narrative and selling it,” Imran said, his eyes scanning the shadowed stalls. “We have to convince the judges we’ve identified cultural value. That’s a performance.”They stopped at a stall overflowing with brassware and old coins. Imran pointed to a dusty, ornately patterned ceramic jar tucked in a corner. “Th

The thrill of the rooftop victory was a cold, distant memory by the time the car pulled away from the Al-Andalus Center. The adrenaline had drained, leaving behind a deep, pulsing exhaustion and the gnawing awareness of the final, looming hurdle. One million dinars. The host told them to go home and rest, he told them to be back here at exactly 12 PM for the final round. The 1 million Dinars hung in the air between Zaid and Imran, a silent, gravitational force.They shared a hired car, the city lights streaking past the windows. For Zaid, the silence was a respite, a chance to process the absurdity of the day—from storytelling merchants to rooftop football led by a fourteen-year-old strategist. For Imran, the silence was apparently an empty vessel begging to be filled.The boy launched into a monologue, his earlier focused intensity dissolving into a stream of unfiltered analysis and personal trivia. “Did you see the way the Crimson team’s left defender favored his right foot? Classic

Zaid’s lungs were still on fire, his suit a damp, wrinkled disaster, as Imran hustled him through the silent, carpeted corridors of the Al-Andalus Center. They bypassed the main auditorium and entered a smaller, circular chamber through a side door. The room was dimly lit, with a single, stark spotlight illuminating the center. The other finalists stood in a tense, loose circle, their eyes flicking towards the latecomers with a mix of irritation and assessment. Radwan stood in the shadow just outside the light, a silent sentinel.“You have arrived,” Radwan stated, his voice echoing slightly in the hushed room. “The final briefing is concluded. You understand the stakes. The final challenge will now commence. It is a test not of strength, speed, or creativity, but of perception, influence, and social deduction.”A chill, unrelated to his sweat-soaked clothes, went down Zaid’s spine. Social deduction. The kind of cold, analytical game Imran lived for.“The rules are simple,” Radwan cont

The walk home was a funeral procession for his own hopes. The towering, gleaming city around him felt like a mockery. Every advertisement for luxury, every sleek car that passed, seemed to scream of Khalid’s newfound fortune and his own catastrophic loss. The shame was a physical taste, coppery and sour in the back of his throat. He had paraded his success, only to fail spectacularly on the most public stage imaginable. He let himself into the silent apartment. His mother and Sami were out, probably at the market buying the new, bland, diabetic-friendly food. The stillness was a relief and a torture. He slumped onto the worn sofa, the same spot where he’d slept so peacefully in his mother’s lap a lifetime ago. He closed his eyes, trying to will the image of Khalid’s victorious face from his mind, the feel of the stupid scissors in his hand.His phone, which had been dark and heavy in his pocket, vibrated. Not a call. A specific, pulsing notification from the Student Achievements & Pa