Rania froze for a moment, her breath ragged, hands braced against her knees. Her eyes were wide, her face drained of color as if all the blood had fled her veins.
Rania (voice trembling):
"What just happened? Who—who was that man? Why did he take Houssam?!"
Jacob (suppressed rage):
"He was searching for something… and he found it on Houssam. He just—he took him. Right in front of us. Like we were nothing."
A heavy silence fell as Jacob slumped to the ground, burying his face in his hands before looking up at the sky. His voice shattered:
"He was in pain… I saw it before he collapsed. And I thought he was joking. I thought—I thought he was fine."
Rania (tears spilling):
"And he asked for forgiveness… from me. And I didn't give it. I let him leave without—without a chance."
She moved closer, sitting beside him but not touching. Just whispering:
"We shouldn't have let him go. Shouldn't have laughed. He was drowning inside, and we were smiling."
Jacob lifted his head slowly, meeting her gaze with a hollow whisper:
"This is on us."
Silence again, thick with guilt and confusion. Then Rania's voice cut through—soft but steel-edged:
"I won't abandon him. I won't let him be hurt more. "We have to find a way… to bring him back."
Jacob (wiping his face):
"I swear it. We'll get him back—no matter the cost."
Difficult moments pass for Jacob and Rania as they lie on the ground, staring up at the sky adorned with stars like sesame seeds scattered across a dark fabric. A painful, heavy silence hangs between them until it's broken by the sound of an approaching car engine.
It's a black 2020 Honda Civic, which came to a stop near them. A young man steps out—around 26 years old, handsome and calm-looking. Then a soft, alluring voice calls out from the other side of the car:
The girl (with a playful tone):
"Need a ride, lovebirds?"
Jacob and Rania both quickly get up and respond in unison:
"Yes, thank you! And—we're just friends!"
The guy next to her chuckles and says:
"Right, sure. We're also 'just friends'."
They all get into the car. Rania and Jacob take the back seat while the guy sits beside the driver. For a moment, silence returns. Then Jacob breaks it, turning to Rania:
Jacob:
"Where do we start? We can't just let Hossam disappear like that."
Rania (thinking seriously):
"Maybe the hospital? He was collapsing right in front of us… that guy might've taken him there."
Jacob (to the driver):
"Please, take us to the nearest hospital."
The girl (smiling and winking):
"You got it, handsome. Coincidentally, I'm heading to the hospital too… my brother had a medical emergency."
Jacob (somberly):
"Hope he's okay… Our friend was in bad shape too. But what scared us the most was the man who took him. He was huge—searched him like a criminal, then just dragged him away."
Suddenly, the car comes to a screeching halt, startling everyone. The girl turns sharply to them, her face pale with fear.
The girl (nervously):
"Did he... did he have a tattoo on his neck?"
Jacob (hesitant):
"I'm not sure… I didn't get that close."
Rania (firmly):
"Yes. "There was something drawn on his neck… it looked like a tattoo."
The girl (hits the steering wheel):
"Damn it!"
She flings her door open and yells at her boyfriend:
"Get out, now!"
The guy:
"What? Why?"
The girl:
"Just get out—I'll explain later! Please, now!"
He steps out slowly, staring after her in confusion as she restarts the engine and speeds off.
Left standing alone, the guy watches the car disappear into the distance, then smiles to himself and mutters:
"I can't believe it… I've fallen in love with a gang girl."
The hospital
The reception area was enveloped in silence, illuminated by cold white lights that reflected off the polished gray ceramic floor. A receptionist in her forties—hair tied back, glasses perched on her nose—sat tensely behind a computer screen, flipping through patient files as soft classical music played from a small radio. To her left, an abandoned coffee machine emitted faint steam, untouched as if no one dared approach it.
In the right corner of the hallway, a sign pointed toward the emergency room.
Emergency Room
The lighting here was dimmer, but the tension was palpable. Gurneys lined the space, separated by half-drawn blue curtains. Doctors and nurses moved with quiet efficiency, while the intermittent beeps of medical monitors sounded like warnings of something far larger looming.
In the back corner, where activity dwindled, George sat on a plastic chair, observing everyone with piercing eyes. A muscular man, with cold gray eyes and a snake tattoo coiled around his neck, disappearing behind his ear—he sat with arms spread, leaning back as if violently claiming the space without a word.
Beside him, three men who seemed like carbon copies:
Tyrone: Massive build, dark skin, a prominent scar on his left cheek, wearing a sleeveless leather jacket.
Luis: Bald, blue-eyed, arms covered in tattoos, flipping a small knife between his fingers.
Dmitri: Blond, neatly trimmed beard, the calmest of the group, wearing an unbuttoned white shirt halfway down his chest.
Their gazes swept the room like invisible security, silent yet communicating through glances.
Opposite them, four young women in their twenties huddled on nearby chairs, whispering but visibly tense:
Lisa (23): Long wavy blonde hair, a simple black dress, bold red lips.
Nora (24): Brunette with short curls, jeans and a gray T-shirt, anxiously checking her phone.
Anna (22): Asian features, sharp yet wide eyes, wearing a tracksuit and nervously picking at her nails.
Celine (21): Fiery red hair, green eyes, the quietest but never taking her eyes off George and his men.
The air was thick, charged like a storm about to break. Everyone knew—what happened to Houssam wasn't just an accident.
It was the beginning of something far worse.
Tyrone (voice low but seething):
"I don't get it… How'd you let him smoke when you knew his condition? You were right there, George! We were supposed to protect him, not watch him destroy himself."
Luis (standing abruptly, glaring at George):
"You know he uses smoke to numb the pain… But you shouldn't have allowed it. You were his shield. We trusted you."
George (still seated, staring at the floor, voice hollow):
"I… I saw him pull out the cigarette. I was going to say something… But his eyes—they were different. I couldn't stop him. Felt like he was saying goodbye."
Dmitri (calm, but words razor-sharp):
"He's got a heart condition. Knows it. And you were supposed to be the fail-safe. A guardian, not a spectator. If something happens to him… That blood's on all of us."
George (lifting his head, whispering like the words choke him):
"I didn't let him. He was hurting… and he wouldn't talk. Thought he just needed time. Didn't know… it was the last time."
Tyrone (tearing up, turning toward the wall):
"We're his brothers… But no one knows. And he refused to admit it. Wanted to live far from us, far from the family's shadow, far from… all this."
Luis (staring at the ICU doors):
"Now he's between life and death… and we're out here, hiding like strangers."
Dmitri (voice breaking):
"I can't lose him. Not after everything we did for him. He has to wake up… He has to."
George (whispering to the floor):
"If he walks out of this… I'll tell him the truth. That caused this pain. Then I'll let him choose—forgive me or cut me out of his life."
Tyrone (sharper):
"You'll say nothing. It's too soon. "We get through this first… Then we settle scores."
The hospital intercom crackles to life:
"Dr. Stewart to the ICU immediately. Dr. Stewart, code blue in ICU."
All four men rise in unison, eyes locked on the closed doors.
The air was thick… time crawled by, the ticking of the clock the only sound cutting through the silence.
The four girls sat huddled together on the opposite benches, their eyes swollen from tears and exhaustion.
Lisa:
"He was trying so hard to be strong… but we all saw the pain in his eyes."
Nora:
"And where were we? Why didn't he come back to us? "Why didn't he ask for help?"
Anna:
"He chose to walk away… but that doesn't mean he didn't need us."
Celine:
"I blame myself… The last time we talked, I was so harsh. Thought I was pushing him, but maybe I just broke him more."
Then, suddenly, the main doors burst open.
A woman rushed in, her steps frantic and unsteady, clutching a transparent bag of men's clothes—a gray shirt, dark pants, and a carefully folded gray scarf.
She was 48, her face weary but unyielding, deep brown eyes framed by streaks of white in her hastily tied-back hair. Her olive coat hung heavy on her shoulders, as if weighed down by a lifetime of grief.
The moment she entered, everyone stood—the four men, the four girls, even the receptionist, all staring at her in eerie silence.
The Woman (voice choked but sharp, gripping the clothes like shattered fragments of a soul):
"Where is he?... Where's Houssam? They said he was here—in the ER. Please."
No one answered. Heads bowed, words strangled in throats, the bitterness of helplessness thick in the air. Only silence… a silence as heavy as stone.
The Woman (scanning them one by one, tears pooling):
"Speak! I'm his mother… I washed him with my own hands when he was a child. Will I have to wash him again?"
Before anyone could utter a word, the ICU doors creaked open.
A doctor stepped out—a balding man in his fifties, glasses perched on his nose, exhaustion lining his face. But his expression was unreadable as he faced the crowd.
The Doctor (voice low, sharp as a blade):
"I'm sorry… I have bad news."