The whistle blew and the game began.Muneer's team wore red bibs over their gray sweatshirts. The opposing team wore blue. The tall man who had tried to recruit Muneer was their captain. He moved like he had played before.he was very fast,Confident and Cruel.The first goal came in the seventh minute.A quick pass through the middle. The teenager, Jihad, tried to block it. He was too late. The tall man received the ball with his back to the goal. He turned and shot. The ball flew past Muneer before he could react.1-0.The tall man looked at Muneer. He didn't smile. He didn't need to.---The second goal came in the twenty-third minute.Muneer's team was exhausted. Yusuf, the old man, could barely jog. The other old man, whose name was Sami, had stopped using his cane to play, but his limp was obvious. The middle-aged man, Khalid, was breathing hard, his hands on his knees between plays.Only Jihad seemed to have energy. He ran. He chased. He tried.But he was one against six.The tal

The hallway was quiet.Muneer walked alone, his footsteps echoing off the white walls. His body ached. His legs were heavy. His hands were raw from catching the ball. But his heart was light.They had won.He reached his room. The door slid open. The small bed, the wooden chair, the table. The vault against the wall. Everything as he had left it.On the table, a tablet.He picked it up. The screen glowed.Congratulations.Your team has won the first game.Each member of the winning team receives $5,000.Your current winnings: $5,000.The next game will begin tomorrow.Rest well.Muneer stared at the screen. Five thousand dollars. Not enough. Not nearly enough. But it was a start.He set the tablet down. He lay on the bed. He closed his eyes.He thought about Layan. About her mother in the hospital. About the debt. About the number he had written on the card.He slept.---A buzzer woke him.He sat up. The tablet glowed on the table.Return to the arena. The second game will be announc

The screen spun again.Muneer.He sat forward. His hands were steady. His voice was calm."Truth," he said.Mahmood raised his hand. "What's the worst thing you've ever done?"Muneer thought about his father. The phone call. The weeks he had ignored. The guilt that still sat in his chest like a stone."I ignored my father when he needed me," he said. "He called me to come home. I didn't. He died before I got there."The circle was quiet."Answer accepted," the masked man said.---The screen spun.Jihad.The teenager sat up straight. He looked at Muneer. Muneer nodded."Truth," Jihad said.Malik raised his hand. His eyes were cold. "Why do you listen to him?" He pointed at Muneer. "The flower shop guy. Why do you do what he says?"Jihad didn't hesitate. "Because he's smarter than me. Because he kept us in the game. Because he didn't abandon us when we were losing."Malik's jaw tightened. "That's not an answer.""It's my answer."The masked man spoke. "Answer accepted. Jihad remains."

The hallway was quiet. Muneer walked alone, his footsteps echoing off the white walls. His body was tired, but his mind was racing. He had survived. He was still in the game. He reached his room. The door slid open. The small bed, the wooden chair, the table. The vault against the wall. On the table, a tablet. He picked it up. The screen glowed. Congratulations. You have won the second game. Your winnings: $20,000. Total winnings: $25,000. The final game will begin tomorrow. Rest well. Muneer stared at the screen. Twenty thousand dollars. Added to the five thousand from the football game. Twenty-five thousand total. Half of what he needed. Half of what Layan's family owed. He set the tablet down. He sat on the bed. He put his head in his hands. Halfway. He was only halfway. --- A knock on the door. Muneer looked up. The door slid open. A masked man stood in the hallway, holding a tray. "Dinner," he said. He set the tray on the table. Steak. Vegetab

The final arena was different. No chairs. No tables. No screens. Just a large circle painted on the concrete floor. Inside the circle, two wrestlers faced each other. Outside the circle, the remaining players sat on benches, watching. Muneer sat on a cold metal bench. Beside him sat the old man, Yusuf. Beside Yusuf sat the teenager, Jihad. Across the circle sat Aisha and two others. And the tall man. Malik. The one from the football game. The one who had tried to recruit Muneer. The one who had been dragged out of the puzzle game for sabotage. He was back. Somehow, he was still in the game. His eyes found Muneer. He smiled. It was not a kind smile. The masked man stood at the center of the circle. "Welcome to the final game," he said. "Romanian wrestling." A murmur went through the players. "The rules are simple. Two players enter the circle. They lock hands. The goal is to throw the opponent to the ground. The first to touch the ground with any part of the body other t