Muneer's first shot missed.The ball hit the front of the rim with a sharp clank and bounced away, rolling across the floor. He stared at it for a moment, frozen. Then he grabbed another ball from the rack. His hands were sweating. The leather felt slick against his palms.He shot. The ball arced high, too high. It sailed over the backboard and bounced into the corner.Two misses. Zero baskets. Thirty seconds gone.From the bench, he could hear murmurs. Jihad shifted in his seat. Yusuf leaned forward, his hands clasped. Malik smiled. Aisha watched with cold, calculating eyes.Muneer grabbed another ball. He wiped his palms on his shirt. He looked at the hoop. It seemed farther away than it had a moment ago. The distance stretched between him and the rim like a canyon.He shot.The ball hit the backboard, then the rim, then bounced twice and fell away.Three misses.He could feel the panic rising in his chest. His breath came faster. His heart pounded against his ribs. The two-minute c

Three months had passed.Muneer stood at the counter of the flower shop, trimming stems, wrapping bouquets. The shop was busy. His hands moved automatically. He had done this so many times that his body remembered the motions while his mind wandered.Layan's mother had recovered. She was home now. Weak, but alive. She smiled when she saw him. She called him her son. The debt was still there, but the payments were manageable. The bank had agreed to a plan.Layan came to the shop most days. She helped with customers. She watered the plants. She laughed at Saeed's jokes. She was good at this. She was good at everything.They had set a wedding date. The garden behind the community center. Small. Modest. Just the people they loved.Life was good.Muneer should have felt happy.But he didn't. He felt like he was waiting for something. A shoe to drop. A door to open. A voice to speak.He told himself it was nothing. The games were over. He had survived. He had come home. He had won, in his o

Muneer sat alone in the white room.The walls were closing in. The light was too bright. His hands were shaking. Ten thousand dollars in debt. He had come here to win money and now he owed money.He thought about Layan. Her face when she found out. Her eyes. Her tears.He thought about the woman, Nadia. A doctor trying to save her mother. She had won. He had lost. He couldn't even be angry at her. Her story was true. Her desperation was real.His story was real too. But it wasn't enough.The door opened. The masked man stood in the hallway."The next round begins now. Follow me."Muneer stood. He followed.---The hallway was longer this time. More turns. More doors. More players in gray sweats, their faces pale, their eyes hollow.They stopped at a door. The masked man opened it.Inside, a room. Larger than the last. A table in the center. Two chairs. A screen on the wall.A figure sat in one of the chairs. Young. Thin. Familiar."Jihad?"The teenager looked up. His face was pale. Hi

Muneer and Jihad walked toward the exit.The hallway was long. White. Endless. But Muneer could see the door at the end. The door that led to the outside. The door that led to freedom.Jihad walked beside him. The money was in his pocket. Fifty thousand dollars. Enough to save his father. Enough to start over.Muneer had fifty thousand left. Enough for Layan. Enough for her mother. Enough for the debt.They were going home.They reached the door. Muneer reached for the handle.The voice returned."You are not permitted to leave."Muneer froze. His hand hovered over the handle."What?""You have not completed the final round. All players must complete the final round before leaving."Jihad stepped forward. "We won. We have the money. We're done.""The game is not complete. There is one final round."Muneer's chest tightened. "We didn't sign up for more.""You signed up for the games. The games are not over until we say they are over."Muneer looked at Jihad. The teenager's face was pal

Three days passed.Muneer played. The games were endless. The walls were white. The light was bright. He was beginning to forget what the sun looked like.He sat on the bed in his small room. The tablet glowed on the table.Next game begins in one hour.He had stopped reading the messages. He had stopped caring about the numbers. He just played. He just survived.The door opened.The masked man stood in the hallway."Follow," he said.Muneer stood. He walked to the door.---The arena was different today.A large screen dominated the far wall. Chairs were arranged in a semicircle. Players sat in silence, their faces pale, their eyes hollow.Muneer found a seat near the back. He waited.The masked man appeared on the stage."Welcome to the next game," he said. "This game is called The Reunion. Players will be paired with someone from their past. Someone they know. Someone they trust. Or someone they betrayed."Muneer's chest tightened."Each pair will compete together. If they win, bo