2025-08-05 16:39:23The grief at that moment was indescribable. Jacobs was more than just a brother; he was Victor's rock, the only one who had stood by him through the hustle. And now he was gone, his death a direct result of his love and support for Victor. The feeling of guilt was a heavy, physical weight.
By the time relatives and friends arrived, a somber crowd had gathered. Many were weeping openly, because Jacobs was a man of the people—humble, kind, and without a hint of arrogance. His death was a great loss to everyone who knew him. Wise elders approached Victor, offering condolences and words of encouragement. "We are so sorry for your loss," one said, "and for what happened to your office. Now is the time to begin funeral arrangements." Throughout it all, Shanny was a constant presence at Victor's side, her comforting hand on his back. Her quiet strength was a balm to his raw grief. He loved her, and finding comfort in her presence wasn't hard. Hospital procedures were completed quickly, and they were given permission for the burial. They didn't want to waste time, so they planned the funeral for two days later, a necessary rush due to the severity of Jacobs' injuries. The funeral was a blur of sorrow. Victor spent the whole time in a fog, isolating himself from the crowd and wrestling with a profound sadness. He blamed himself for not being there, for allowing his younger brother to die in a car accident. But in a quiet corner of his mind, a different thought took hold. He told himself that he had to be brave, that everything was part of God's plan. Slowly, he began to let go and prepare to start a fresh chapter. It was late that night when a knock came at the door. Victor, tired but unable to sleep, got up to open it. Standing there was Shanny, soaked to the bone from the rain pouring down outside. He stared at her in shock. "Shanny, what are you doing here? You're drenched. Why are you walking alone on a night like this?" She hugged herself, shivering. "My car broke down on Second Street. I had to walk the rest of the way." Overwhelmed with concern, Victor pulled her into a warm embrace. "I'm so sorry," he said, holding her tight. He led her inside so she could change out of her wet clothes. Victor led Shanny to the couch and handed her a thick, warm blanket. "Here, change out of those wet clothes. I'll make us some tea." A few minutes later, she returned, wrapped in one of Victor’s sweatshirts and the blanket, a steaming mug in her hands. The silence was gentle now, filled with the soft patter of rain against the window. "Thank you," she said, her voice a soft whisper. "For everything." Victor sat beside her, the smell of damp earth and tea filling the air. "I should be the one saying that, Shanny. I couldn't have gotten through today without you." He looked at her, his eyes full of exhaustion and pain. "I keep thinking about Jacobs. That he died because of me. He was just trying to help, and now..." His voice broke. Shanny reached out and took his hand. "No, Victor. You can't think that. It wasn't your fault. You weren't the one driving that car." "But he was coming to see me," Victor insisted, the guilt still heavy on his shoulders. "He was on his way to help me with the business. If the fire hadn't happened..." "The fire was a tragedy, just like the accident was," she said firmly. "But you can't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You have to let that go. Jacobs would have wanted you to." He didn't reply, just squeezed her hand, a silent acknowledgment. He had been so focused on his own guilt that he hadn't considered Shanny's feelings. He looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time that night—her face pale with worry, her eyes shadowed with her own grief. "Are you okay, Shanny? This has been hard on you, too." She nodded slowly. "He was my brother, too, you know. But seeing you so broken… I had to be strong for you." Victor pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her shoulder. It was the first time since the news that he had allowed himself to be comforted. With her in his arms, the storm inside him began to quiet.
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The Narrow Door
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
The Room Without Corners
They escorted Salim through corridors he had walked a hundred times — yet tonight, each step felt unfamiliar. Too narrow. Too quiet. The Ministry after dark was a different creature altogether, stripped of its daytime bustle and left with only the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft echo of footsteps that fell like judgments.Minister Amina walked ahead of him with her usual precise calm. The two auditors followed behind him, close enough that Salim could feel their presence like cold breath on his neck.They reached a door he had never noticed before. It was unmarked, painted the same color as the wall. A room meant to remain unseen.Amina opened it.Light flooded out — blinding, sterile.Salim’s stomach tightened.The room was perfectly square, but somehow it felt like it had no corners, as if the walls curved just slightly, denying any place to hide. In the center sat a single chair. Metal. Bolted to the floor.Not a torture room — the Patron didn’t need such crude methods.No,
The Shape of Retaliation
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
When a Name is Spoken
The van’s door slid fully open, the metallic rattle carrying across the narrow street like a warning bell. Inside, dim light revealed the silhouettes of three men — faceless in the way only loyalists could be, their movements precise, their bodies taut with readiness. They carried nothing visible, but Salim knew better. Violence did not need to be seen to be certain.He stepped into the road before he had time to reconsider. His pulse hammered in his ears as he raised a hand, a gesture half-born of instinct, half of impossibility.“Stop,” he said.His voice cracked in the air, too thin, too human against the mass of metal rolling toward him.The van hesitated.Not fully — just a hitch, a breath of uncertainty. But it was enough. Salim moved closer, his shoes scuffing the pavement, his other hand clenched into a fist inside his pocket. The envelope crumpled further, as if sharing his fear.The driver leaned forward, expression unreadable in the half-light. “This is restricted,” the man
The Choice
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
The Drum
The morning cracked open with no color, only a weight of gray that pressed on the roofs and hung over the roads. The clouds seemed nailed to the sky, and in the neighborhoods where life usually began with music from radios and chatter from kitchens, there was only the sound of charcoal stoves being stoked. Thin spirals of smoke lifted through courtyards where families crouched around pots. Breakfasts were cooked in silence, as though the air itself had ears. Even the roosters crowed more softly, their defiance subdued.Across the city, power lines sagged, lifeless wires draped like ropes above narrow lanes. Children ran errands with buckets, fetching water from shared taps, their laughter hushed by parents who gave sharp glances toward the street before whispering, “Not now.” Fear had become the language that everyone understood without translation.The Patron’s hand had moved again in the night. Not content with choking bank accounts, he had stretched his reach into the streets thems
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