A Chance To Rise

Chapter 8, Standing Up To The System.

The days passed in tense silence. Zaid kept his head down, pretending to focus on his schoolwork, but his mind was elsewhere always watching, always waiting. The memory of Salim being dragged into that van haunted him. He had to know more.

On Friday afternoon, as the final bell rang and students flooded the halls, Zaid lingered near the lockers, his phone hidden in his palm, recording discreetly. The group of Blue Card bullies led by the same tall, sneering boy who had tormented Salim before gathered near the school gates, laughing loudly.

"You ready for tonight?" one of them asked, nudging his friend.

"Oh, it's gonna be good," another replied, cracking his knuckles. "Salim's got a special surprise waiting for him."

Zaid's stomach twisted. He waited until they started moving, then followed at a distance, keeping to the shadows.

The bullies led him to a run-down part of town, where graffiti-covered walls and broken streetlights created long, eerie shadows. At the end of a narrow alley stood an old, abandoned-looking building with boarded-up windows except for one on the top floor, where a faint blue glow pulsed behind the glass.

Zaid hesitated. If he got caught, there'd be no one to help him. But he couldn't turn back now.

He slipped inside through a side door, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of mildew. The emergency stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed, his heart pounding in his chest. At the top, a dim light spilled from beneath a door marked "STUDIO KEEP OUT."

Zaid pressed his ear against the wood.

Laughter. Cheering. The sound of something wet splattering against the floor.

His fingers trembled as he pulled out his phone, switching to video mode. Slowly, carefully, he pushed the door open just a crack, enough to see inside.

The room was set up like a makeshift studio. Bright lights. A camera on a tripod, live-streaming to a monitor where comments scrolled rapidly.

And at the center of it all was Salim.

The boy stood on a plastic tarp, his uniform stained with what looked like egg yolk and green paint. His face was flushed with humiliation, his eyes downcast as the bullies circled him like vultures.

"Come on, Salim, smile for the camera!" one of them jeered, tossing another egg. It hit his shoulder, yolk dripping down his sleeve.

"You're our star tonight!" another laughed, grabbing a bucket of green paint. "Let's make sure everyone is happy with you!"

Zaid's grip on his phone tightened as he recorded every second. The way Salim flinched when they threw things at him. The way his voice cracked when they forced him to repeat ridiculous lines. The way the comments on the screen mocked him, egging the bullies on.

"Pathetic."

"Do it again!"

"This is gold!"

The broadcast lasted an hour. When it finally ended, the bullies high-fived each other, packing up their equipment without a second glance at Salim.

"Same time next week?" one asked, grinning.

"Oh yeah," another replied. "We'll think of something even better."

Then they left, their laughter echoing down the hallway as the door slammed shut behind them.

Zaid waited until their footsteps faded before slipping into the room. The lights were still on, the plastic tarp crumpled and stained.

And there, in the corner Salim was sitting. He hadn't moved. Just sat there, hunched over, his arms wrapped around his knees. Paint and eggshells clung to his hair, his clothes. His breath hitched in quiet, shaky gasps.

Zaid's throat tightened. He took a step forward.

Salim's head snapped up, his eyes wide with fear. "W-Who is it?"

"It's okay," Zaid said quickly, holding up his hands. "I'm not with them."

For a long moment, Salim just stared at him, as if waiting for the trap to spring. Then, slowly, his shoulders slumped.

"Why did you follow them?" he whispered.

Zaid swallowed. "Because someone has to stop this."

Zaid's chest tightened as he watched Salim wipe green paint from his face with trembling hands. The boy's shoulders shook with silent sobs, his uniform ruined, his pride shattered. Zaid couldn't walk away not now.

He pulled out his phone and showed Salim the damning footage, every egg thrown, every cruel laugh, every humiliating command. "We can stop this. We can take this to the police."

Salim's eyes welled with fresh tears. "You don't understand," he whispered. "Their parents, they have connections. Judges. Lawyers. The police won't do anything." His voice broke. "No one ever does."

Zaid clenched his fists. "Then we go to the school. They care about their reputation." He tapped the video. "If they don't act, we post this everywhere. Social media. News outlets. Let the world see what their precious Blue Cards are really like."

For a long moment, Salim stared at the screen. Then, hesitantly, he nodded.

____

The dean's office smelled of leather and expensive cologne. The man himself sat behind a polished mahogany desk, his smile fading as Zaid slapped his phone onto it, the video playing on loop.

"I know why there aren't cameras near the Blue and White Card dorms," Zaid said coldly. "You give them freedom to do whatever they want. But this?" He pointed at Salim's bruised face. "This ends now."

The dean steepled his fingers. "Young man, I assure you"

"Save it," Zaid interrupted. "Either you punish them, or this goes viral. And if that doesn't work, we'll send it to every lawyer and journalist we can find."

Silence. Then the dean sighed. "I'll speak to the students myself."

____

The bullying stopped.

The group of bullies avoided Salim entirely, their sneers replaced by wary glances. Rumors spread about the video, about the dean's warning, about how two "nobodies" had stood up to the system.

Salim, for the first time in months, walked the halls without flinching. He and Zaid ate lunch together, traded notes, even laughed about the absurdity of it all.

And when Zaid checked his phone that Friday, a notification blinked:

TASK COMPLETE. 250 DINARS TRANSFERRED.

He smirked. It seemed that justice, had its rewards.