2025-07-29 21:32:59The dorm room door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the tiny space that smelled of laundry detergent and the faint metallic tang of the aging radiator. Bassam immediately flopped onto his narrow bed, the springs creaking in protest, while Zaid stood frozen in the center of the room.
His phone had buzzed again. The screen's blue light illuminated his face as he stared at the message: SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: NEW MISSION AVAILABLE Objective: Monitor the bully squad and take pictures of their vicious act. Reward: 200 dinars. Status: [Accept] [Decline] The numbers seemed to burn into his retinas - 200 dinars. It was enough to buy medicine when his mother's back pain flared up. Enough that he wouldn't have to ask her for money for a month or two. He could even buy a new pair of shoes. His thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly. Across the room, Bassam had already pulled his uniform shirt off and was rummaging in his drawer for sleep clothes. "You're just going to stand there all night?" he asked without turning around. Zaid quickly locked his phone. "No, I just..." His voice trailed off as he walked to his own bed, the worn mattress dipping under his weight. The message burned in his pocket like a hot coal. 200 dinars. But those boys, their expensive watches glinting in the streetlight, their laughter like shards of glass , they weren't just regular bullies. They were blue cards holders. They were powerful, they were protected. Zaid's fingers dug into his knees. If he got caught spying on them... He imagined his mother's face when the expulsion notice came. The way her shoulders would slump when she had to beg the school board for another chance. But 200 dinars... ____ Dawn painted the dormitory hallway in pale gray light when Zaid slipped out, his sneakers silent on the linoleum. The sunglasses felt awkward in the dimness, and the medical mask itched against his cheeks, but he didn't dare remove them. The rich kids' dorm wing smelled like lemon cleaning products and expensive cologne. Zaid pressed himself against the wall, his heart hammering so loudly he feared it might echo. Somewhere down the hall, a shower was running, the pipes groaning in the walls. Through a half-open door, he caught a glimpse of gold-embossed stationery on a desk. Then movement, it was one of the boys from last night, he was stretched across a leather chair, idly tossing a stress ball at the ceiling. Another lounged on a sofa that looked more expensive than Zaid's house. He counted them, they were five, just like he'd seen harassing that kid. Their laughter floated through the doorway, rich and careless. Zaid's phone camera clicked silently, capturing their privileged world in stolen snapshots. A floorboard creaked behind him. Zaid's blood turned to ice. He ducked into an alcove just as someone walked past, humming off-key. The digital clock on the wall ticked over to 6:15 AM. Time to go. --- Bassam was sitting up in bed when Zaid returned, his hair sticking up in sleep-mussed spikes. "Where were you?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. Zaid's tongue felt thick in his mouth. "I Just... went for a run," he said, tugging at the mask still covering his face. "You know, I like running in the morning ." Bassam's gaze sharpened, he noticed the sunglasses perched on Zaid's nose, the mask hiding half his face. "In a mask and glasses?" His voice was flat with disbelief. "Allergies!" The word burst out too loud, too fast. Zaid forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "From the jasmine last night by the entrance. I'm allergic to jasmine." The silence stretched between them. Bassam's eyes narrowed. "I didn't see any Jasmine flowers." Zaid could feel sweat trickling down his back, both from the stifling mask and the weight of Bassam's stare. "Yeah, well... the florist must have just bought some." Bassam opened his mouth as if to argue, then shook his head and reached for his uniform shirt. "Whatever. Just try not to pass out in this heat." Zaid kept the mask on all through morning classes. By third period, his face was slick with sweat, the fabric clinging damply to his skin. A student in his chemistry class kept shooting him concerned looks, but he pretended not to notice. The 200 dinars glowed in his mind like a beacon. Just a few more days of this. A few more days, and he could buy those new shoes without asking his mother for money. A few more days, and maybe - just maybe - he could make things a little easier for both of them. --- That night, as Zaid lay staring at the water-stained ceiling, his phone buzzed with another notification: MISSION PROGRESS: 27% COMPLETE Additional Instructions: Capture video evidence of weekend activities. Bonus Reward: +50 dinars. The numbers danced before his eyes - 250 total now. Enough for the new backpack too. Enough to last months if he was careful. Across the room, Bassam turned in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible. Zaid turned his phone face-down on his chest, but the light seemed to linger in the darkness like a ghost. Somewhere in the city, those blue cards boys were probably lounging in some expensive penthouse, completely unaware they were being watched. And somewhere else Zaid tried not to think about where that scrawny kid from last night might be nursing fresh bruises. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the numbers still burned behind his eyelids: 250 dinars.
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Chapter 122 A Slow Change
The silence in the mansion was a physical presence, thick and cold as morning fog. Imran sat at the vast dining table, a single place setting before him, the polished wood stretching endlessly in both directions. Across from him, Bassam hunched over his own plate, eating mechanically, his eyes fixed on some middle distance that had nothing to do with the room around him.A servant had placed their breakfast—fresh bread, cheese, olives, eggs—and retreated to the kitchen. The clink of cutlery against porcelain was the only sound.Imran watched Bassam for a long moment. He thought about last night—the stadium, the shawarma, the way Zaid had thrown an arm around his shoulders like it was nothing. The way Khamees had ruffled his hair and called him annoying but theirs. The way he had felt, for a few hours, like a person instead of a project.He looked at Bassam, who lived in the same house but might as well have been on another planet."The eggs are good this morning," Imran said.Bassam g
Chapter 121 Late Night Shawrma
The stadium lights were fading behind them, the roar of the crowd now a distant memory replaced by the quiet hum of the city at night. The game had been everything they'd hoped for—Al-Qadisiya had won in the final minutes, the stadium had exploded, and for two glorious hours, nothing had mattered except the ball and the goal and the shared joy of thousands of strangers becoming one voice.Now, the group was dispersing. Hosam and Karam had peeled off towards their own dorms, still arguing about a controversial offside call. Bassam had quietly slipped away with a wave, his usual reserve intact but a genuine smile lingering on his face. That left Zaid, Khamees, and Imran walking together through the quiet streets towards their building.The night was cool, carrying the first hints of autumn. Imran walked slightly apart from them, his hands in his pockets, his face tilted up towards the stars. He hadn't spoken much since leaving the stadium, but there was something different in his silenc
Chapter 120 The Little Boss Comes Around
The week had been brutal. Three shoots, two video edits, and a system quest that had required Zaid to learn the basics of financial literacy in seventy-two hours—Imran's idea of "character development." By Friday afternoon, Zaid was running on caffeine and desperation, his only solace the bright orange ticket burning a hole in his pocket.The final match. Al-Qadisiya vs. Al-Arabi. The biggest game of the season. Everyone was going—Bassam, Hosam, Karam, even Fares (though they'd agreed to sit on opposite sides of the stadium to avoid drama). It was going to be perfect.Except for one small problem."We're not going." Imran's voice was flat, final, as he studied his tablet in Khamees's room. "We have the sponsorship proposal for the sports drink brand due Monday. The preliminary cut needs to be reviewed. And the analytics from the desert vlog require a full breakdown before the next content meeting."Khamees's face went through several shades of red. "The game is tomorrow. The proposal
Chapter 119 The Scariest Monster Is Human.
The desert at night was a different creature entirely. During the day, it had been beautiful—golden dunes, endless sky, the romantic allure of ancient stories. But now, under a cold moon and a blanket of stars that felt too close, it was terrifying. Every shadow seemed to move. Every sound—the scuttle of a beetle, the whisper of wind—felt like a warning.They had set up camp near Abu Rashed's territory, with his permission, to film a "desert survival" vlog. The concept was simple: Zaid would attempt to start a fire without matches, navigate by the stars, and generally look rugged and capable. Imran had calculated that the "man vs. wild" genre had high engagement rates among their demographic. Khamees had agreed, reluctantly, because the numbers made sense.But none of them had accounted for the lingering terror of the old man's stories.The fire crackled weakly, struggling against the night breeze. Zaid sat cross-legged on a blanket, his eyes darting towards the darkness beyond the fi
Chapter 118 Sweet Moments
The afternoon sun was warm on their shoulders as Zaid and his mother walked through the old market, the kind of aimless weekend stroll they hadn't shared in months. She had wanted to get out of the apartment, to breathe air that didn't smell like cleaning supplies and worry. Zaid had cleared his entire schedule over Imran's mild objections—to make it happen.They wandered past spice stalls and fabric shops, past the scent of spices and the sound of merchants hawking their wares. His mother paused at a jewelry stall, admiring silver Bedouin pieces, and Zaid felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the sun. This was what mattered. This was the point of everything.Then she stopped in front of a sweet shop.The window display was a masterpiece of temptation, golden kunafa glistening with syrup, basbousa soaked in rose water, baklava layered in perfect, flaky sheets. His mother's eyes widened with a longing so pure, so childlike, that Zaid almost laughed."Look at that kunaf
Chapter 117 Stories In Clay
The pottery studio was a hidden gem tucked away in the oldest part of the city, where modern life faded into the dust and silence of history. Abu Rashed, the master potter, was a man whose face was a map of wrinkles, each line telling a story of decades spent shaping clay under the desert sun. His hands, gnarled and strong, moved with a grace that made the spinning wheel seem alive.Zaid sat across from him, his own hands covered in wet clay, attempting to shape a simple bowl. It was going badly. The clay kept collapsing, spinning into lopsided lumps that bore no resemblance to pottery.Abu Rashed laughed, a dry, crackling sound like wind over sand. "You fight it, boy. The clay is not your enemy. It is your partner. You must listen to it.""I'm trying," Zaid grunted, rescuing another collapsing mess. "It's not very talkative."Khamees circled them with the camera, capturing every angle. Imran sat in the corner, tablet in hand, monitoring the footage on a secondary screen, occasionally
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