The call center was a box of buzzing neon and recycled air, filled with the drone of restless voices. Rows of desks stretched across the floor like an assembly line, each one occupied by men and women tethered to headsets, their faces lit by the cold glow of computer screens.
Soufiane Mouaaouia sat slouched in his chair, headset pressed tightly against his ear as another angry customer spat frustration into the line.
"Oui, monsieur, I understand your frustration," he repeated in a practiced, almost lifeless tone. His fingers danced across the keyboard, feeding the scripted responses into the Lyca Mobile database. The Frenchman on the other end cursed again, his voice sharp with contempt. Soufiane didn't even flinch. He'd heard it all before. A click ended the call. One more complaint closed. One more stranger's anger absorbed and forgotten.
He pulled the headset from his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The screen in front of him reflected a tired man with deep lines around his eyes. At thirty-five, divorced, and living in a small, suffocating apartment in Casablanca, he felt decades older. His ex-wife had taken their son, Younes, to the Netherlands years ago. Soufiane still visited when he could, but each time the boy seemed further away, like a shoreline retreating from his grasp.
Fishing was the only thing that still made sense. Early mornings on the Atlantic, rod in hand, salt on his lips, the horizon stretching out forever—that was his sanctuary. The sea never judged, never shouted, never left.
But tonight the sea was only a memory. The call center's fluorescent lights hummed above, and beneath that hum lurked a strange unease. A co-worker coughed violently in the corner. Heads turned, eyes darted, and the usual banter between shifts evaporated into silence.
When his shift ended, Soufiane stepped out into the Casablanca night. Normally, the city pulsed with noise even at midnight—horns blaring, laughter spilling from cafés, the calls of street vendors echoing between narrow walls. Tonight, those sounds were thin, as though someone had placed a heavy hand over the city's mouth. The silence unsettled him more than the noise ever could.
At home, he kicked off his shoes, flicked on the television, and collapsed into the worn couch. The screen blazed with a red banner: BREAKING NEWS.
The anchor's face was pale, his voice trembling as he read:
"Authorities urge all citizens to remain indoors. A viral outbreak has been confirmed in multiple neighborhoods. Symptoms include violent behavior, delirium, and—"
The feed cut sharply to chaotic footage: shaky phone video of men and women clawing at strangers in the streets, their mouths dripping red, soldiers firing rifles into the dark, bullets seeming to do nothing. Blood streaked white walls. Sirens wailed, then cut abruptly, leaving only screams.
Soufiane leaned forward, heart hammering. His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was his mother, Naima.
"Soufiane!" her voice cracked with fear. "Stay home! Your father and I are safe for now, but the streets… they are dangerous. Don't come outside, no matter what happens!"
"Mother, what's going on? Where exactly are you—"
The line went dead. Static hissed in his ear.
He tried calling back, but nothing. No signal. No connection. Only silence.
The power flickered. Lights dimmed. From outside, through the cracked window, came a sound that froze his blood—a scream, raw and inhuman, echoing through the neighborhood.
Soufiane stood rigid in the half-dark, his hands trembling. This wasn't another crisis. Not another headline to scroll past. Not another temporary storm that would blow over.
This was something else. Something final.
For the first time, Soufiane understood: the world wasn't breaking. It was ending.
And it was starting here, in his city, under his sky.