One day, Maher walked in on Omar at his home. It was the weekend, and Omar had been slacking off all day, reviewing everything he knew about the General and the people around him. The microphone plan had failed—just as they'd expected, since the Minister washed his clothes regularly. They'd only managed to spy on him for a few hours.
Omar was shocked by Maher's sudden visit. Normally, he had to beg Maher to come see him. "Why did you come so suddenly?" Omar asked. "And why did you just barge in like that?"
Maher didn't hesitate. "I want to join."
Omar frowned. "Join what?"
"The revolutionists," Maher said.
Omar stared at him in disbelief. "Are you sure that's what you want?"
Maher met his gaze. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
Maher leaned forward, his voice low. "The problem is, no one knows how to reach the revolutionists. They're ghosts."
Omar studied him for a long moment before exhaling sharply. "I'll help you."
Maher's eyes widened. "You know how?"
A faint smirk tugged at Omar's lips. "Better than that." He paused, then dropped the words like stones. "I've been one of them for a long time now."
Silence stretched between them. Maher's breath caught—his friend, the slacker who spent weekends buried in notes, had been hiding this the whole time?
"You?" Maher finally managed.
Omar's smirk faded into something harder. "Surprised?"
---
Another chaotic demonstration took place, thousands of people were shouting their demands downtown, and when the police arrived the demonstration erupted into chaos.
Police in riot gear advanced, batons swinging, shields locking into a wall of force. The crowd surged, some retreating, others throwing rocks, their shouts swallowed by the roar of conflict. Then came the rumble of engines.
Wastewater vans rolled in, hoses primed. A moment later, jets of foul, chemical-laced water blasted into the crowd. People stumbled back, coughing, slipping on wet pavement. The stench burned their eyes, their throats. Some turned and ran; others stood their ground, screaming defiance even as the torrent knocked them down.
The street had become a battlefield—no banners left, no chants, just survival.
The armored wastewater van lurched forward, its target clear—the medical tents. The police knew that crushing the protesters' hope meant crushing their spirit, and nothing symbolized hope more than the medics who kept them standing.
Inside one of the tents, a young man clutched his bleeding leg, unable to flee. Paramedics shouted at the advancing officers, their voices raw with desperation.
"They're injured! Our job is to help them!"
The police ignored them, forming a human barricade to block the medics.
Then, out of nowhere, Hasan burst forward. He ducked under an officer's arm and dove into the tent, immediately tending to the wounded protester.
The van's engine growled as it inched closer. An officer barked through a megaphone:
"Last warning—evacuate now, or we'll clear you out by force!"
Hasan stepped outside, his face streaked with sweat and dirt but his voice steady.
"Go ahead. Do whatever you want." He pointed back at the tent. "That man can't walk. It's my job to help him—and I will. Nothing you do will stop me."
Without another word, he turned and walked back inside.
Nearby, an influencer's phone captured the entire scene, broadcasting it live to thousands—then hundreds of thousands—of horrified, furious viewers.
The video exploded overnight.
A shaky phone clip—Hasan ducking under police barriers, his hands steady as he bound the wounded protester's leg, his defiant words ringing out before he turned his back on the advancing van. Within hours, it was everywhere: hashtags, reposts, grainy screenshots turned into digital murals.
Comments flooded in by the thousands:
"This man walked into hell and said, 'Not today.'"
"They tried to kill hope, but that nurse is hope."
"The Angel of the Revolution, no wings, just dirty hands and a spine of steel."
Poets strung his name into poetry verses; artists sketched him haloed in ambulance lights. Strangers recounted (sometimes invented) stories—"He saved my cousin in the '23 riots!"
"I heard he treats cops too, if they're hurt."
Hasan himself said nothing. He kept working, moving between protests and field clinics, now trailed by whispers and phone cameras. The wounded boy from the tent, interviewed from his hospital bed, sobbed: "He didn't even know me. He just saw a person."
And that, more than any slogan, became the rallying cry.