The air in the abandoned hammam was thick with silence and soot. The explosion had left everyone shaken. Khalid, still recovering from a blow to the ribs, sat hunched on a low stool while Samira bandaged a shallow cut on his temple. Yassin paced the length of the tiled room, the pocket watch heavy in his coat.
It still refused to tick.
Rafiq's betrayal hung in the air like a lingering ghost.
"He was just a kid," Yassin finally muttered.
Khalid didn't look up. "So are most of us. The French don't care. They exploit our youth, our fear. We can't let that make us soft."
"He wasn't evil," Samira said. "He was terrified. But that doesn't make him innocent."
Khalid nodded grimly. "No. It doesn't."
The group's core members had dwindled. Abbas had gone dark. No one had seen him since the explosion. Samira suspected he was out surveying the city, using old networks to sense the shifts in French activity. Hakim was recovering from shrapnel wounds.
Yassin sat down across from Khalid. "What now? You said we strike. But with who? With what?"
"With the ones still willing to fight. And with knowledge," Khalid replied. "There's a man—an informant who used to work with us before he disappeared. If he's still alive, he knows where the French are holding the captured. He might know De Lassalle's plans."
"What makes you think he'll help us?"
"He owes me a life."
The Ghost of Carrière Française
The informant's name was Jalil. A former interpreter turned reluctant rebel, he had once smuggled French military plans out of the central barracks before going underground. Rumor had it he'd been captured, tortured, then released for reasons no one understood.
His last known location: the quarry outskirts of Casablanca, near Carrière Française—a grim patch of industrial ruin where workers mined stone and shadows in equal measure.
"We leave at dawn," Khalid said.
The next morning, wrapped in cloaks and riding in a horse-drawn cart disguised as traders, Yassin and Khalid set out. Samira stayed behind to maintain communication. The transmitter, salvaged and repaired by Yassin, now operated via a crude code system only the resistance understood.
The road to the quarry twisted between slums and factories, the smoke-stained skyline of Casablanca a distant smear of empire.
Khalid stared ahead. "You sure you want this? You can still stay out of it."
Yassin met his gaze. "I think the watch won't let me."
Khalid grunted. "Neither will I."
The quarry appeared like a scar on the land—jagged rock formations, broken machines, and hollow-eyed men carrying heavy loads. Somewhere amidst them, Jalil hid.
They found him in the shell of a collapsed tool shed, wrapped in a military blanket, speaking to himself.
He looked up at Khalid, eyes sunken but alert. "Took you long enough."
"Still alive, old friend."
"Not for long if you brought the French with you."
Khalid smirked. "You flatter me."
Yassin watched the exchange with quiet curiosity. Jalil had the look of someone who had seen too much and remembered too well.
"Who's the kid?"
"Not a kid. Not from here, not from now."
Jalil blinked. "Ah. So you're the timewalker. Salima told me you'd come."
Yassin's heart stopped. "You know her?"
"Everyone who's seen the end does."
He pulled something from his coat—a torn French communiqué marked urgent.
"They're moving political prisoners. Tonight. Five from Derb Sultan. Including a girl named Leila. She's part of your circle, isn't she?"
Khalid nodded. "My cousin."
"They're moving them to the barracks by the port. De Lassalle wants a public execution to send a message."
Yassin felt cold. "We have to stop it."
Jalil coughed. "They'll move under escort. Armored cars. You'll need more than bravery."
Khalid looked at Yassin. "You said you build things."
"Apps," Yassin said. "Tech. Back in the future."
"Then build us a miracle."
Blueprints of Rebellion
Back at the hammam, they gathered what little remained: old explosives, radios, scrap wiring, metal from abandoned bicycles. Yassin sketched a plan using charcoal on broken tiles.
"A signal jammer," he said. "If I can isolate their radio frequency, I can disrupt their communication long enough for us to hit them."
"Will it work?" Samira asked.
"In theory. I made something like it once, for a university protest. Not with bombs, though."
Samira smiled. "Welcome to Casablanca."
They worked for hours. Khalid and Hakim built the frame; Samira tested the radio frequencies; Yassin improvised the jammer from a repurposed car battery, copper wire, and a disassembled radio.
At midnight, they moved.
The Ambush
Near the port, they buried the jammer under a market cart and waited. Yassin tuned the device as the first convoy appeared—two trucks, six soldiers per vehicle, and one French officer driving.
He flipped the switch.
The convoy halted. Confused shouting.
Then: smoke bombs. Gunfire.
Samira and Hakim emerged from alleys, rifles blazing. Khalid moved like a shadow, cutting down soldiers with brutal precision.
Yassin ran to the back of the truck.
Inside: Leila. Bound but alive. Four others with her.
He broke the lock with a crowbar. "Come on!"
Leila's eyes widened. "Who are you?"
"A friend."
They fled through the backstreets as French soldiers regrouped. Sirens blared. Searchlights cut across the dark.
At the hammam, Leila hugged Khalid. "They said we were dead."
"Not while we're breathing."
The Price of Shadows
News of the ambush spread. De Lassalle declared martial law in Derb Sultan. Mass arrests followed. Entire families vanished overnight.
But the people had seen resistance. Hope flickered.
Yassin sat beside Samira on the rooftop. The city buzzed below.
"You risked everything," she said.
"So did you."
"But you don't belong here."
"Maybe I do now."
The watch in his pocket ticked once.
Samira looked at him. "It means something. Doesn't it?"
"It means I'm not done yet."
To be continued in Chapter 5: Whispers of the Casbah