The next morning dawned heavy, the kind of lightless gray that seemed to flatten every rooftop and stall every breeze. In the quiet neighborhoods, power lines still drooped lifeless, and families cooked breakfast on charcoal stoves in their courtyards, their voices lowered as though the air itself had ears.The Patron’s hand had moved further in the night. Not content with financial freezes, his reach had extended into the streets. Men in plain clothes were dispatched to hang near bus stops, recording faces with discreet cameras. Known agitators—anyone who had been spotted at Mwenge—were taken quietly, no warrants, no charges, only a van that stopped and pulled them in. The sound of its sliding door became, in whispers, a sound of dread.Salim read the first reports before most of the city had fully woken. They came across his desk sealed in black envelopes, marked “For Eyes Authorized.” He slit the paper, his hand slower than usual, as though part of him already knew what he would se

The night after the posters appeared, the city did not sleep. Or perhaps it pretended to, the way a wounded animal pretends stillness when the predator is near. Windows stayed shuttered longer than usual. Radios that once hummed with taarab or the chatter of preachers now whispered only news of prices, never politics. The sea air carried the smell of charcoal smoke, fried fish, and something less tangible — a hush that had grown too heavy to be called ordinary silence.Salim walked those streets without destination, his steps carrying him further from the Ministry than prudence allowed. His jacket collar was raised, but still he felt seen — by posters glaring down at him, by men who leaned against lampposts with their hands tucked into their pockets, by the invisible gaze of the Patron himself. Every intersection seemed staged for menace, every corner waiting to bloom with an unmarked van.And yet he kept walking.By the time he returned to his quarters, dawn was already dusting the s

Night wrapped the city in its usual dark velvet, but there was an edge to it now — a tautness, as though the streets themselves were bracing for something. Somewhere in a distant neighborhood, a dog barked once, sharply, then fell silent.And in the fortified quiet of the Patron’s residence, someone else was barking.Not a dog.A minister.The Chamber of Oversight — a long, dim room lined with portraits of past leaders whose eyes never quite aligned — trembled with the force of the shouting.“They interfered with an active retrieval,” Minister Barasa slammed a folder onto the polished table. Pages burst out like startled birds. “Your units were instructed to monitor that square. Not to retreat like frightened schoolboys.”Across from him stood Commander Juma, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable. “My men reported unexpected authority on-site.”“Authority?” Barasa hissed. “Who?”“They didn’t identify him. They feared he was senior. Possibly Ministerial.”Barasa’s lip cu

The corridor exploded with echoing alarms — long, rising wails that turned the Ministry into a living creature screaming for its guards. Red emergency lights pulsed along the ceiling, splashing the walls in frantic color.The masked figure pulled Salim forward with surprising strength.“This way,” the rescuer ordered.Salim stumbled, barely keeping his balance. “Who are you?” he hissed.“Later. Move.”Behind them, doors were slamming open. Boots thundered. Minister Amina’s voice cut through the noise like a blade:“BLOCK THE EAST WING! HE IS NOT TO REACH THE STAIRWELLS!”Salim felt a jolt of terror. They knew exactly where he would run.The masked rescuer seemed to know this too.Instead of heading toward the main exit, they swung left into a narrow maintenance passage. The rough walls and exposed pipes made it clear this wasn’t meant for officials — only for workers the regime never expected to flee.“Down,” the rescuer said.A metal hatch lay open ahead — a service ladder leading in