The neon haze of the call center still clung to Soufiane's vision, ghosts of fluorescent light burned into his eyes. He sat hunched at his small kitchen table, the muted television flickering silently in the corner. His fingers tapped nervously against the wood. The phone in his hand felt heavier than it ever had, as though its weight could drag him straight into the earth.
He dialed his parents again. Nothing. Just a cold emptiness where their voices should have been.
His thumb hovered over another name. His ex-wife.
For a long moment he stared at the number, his pulse quickening. Then he pressed.
"Soufiane?" Her voice came sharp, suspicious, as if his call itself was an intrusion.
"How is Younes?" he asked, the words spilling out quickly, almost desperately.
There was a pause on the other end. "He's fine. He's sleeping." Her tone softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again. "But listen to me—don't you dare think about coming here. The airports, the borders… everything is shut down. Just stay in Casablanca. Promise me."
Her voice wavered on that last word. Soufiane had never heard her afraid. Not like this.
Before he could answer, the line went dead.
Silence filled the room. Silence, and then—
A knock. Sharp. Urgent. Frantic.
Soufiane froze. His heart thudded. Another knock, louder, rattling the door against its hinges.
He rose, hand instinctively reaching for the fishing knife on the counter. Once, it had been a tool for mornings at the Atlantic, slicing bait beneath the rising sun. Tonight, it was a weapon. The only weapon he had.
He approached the door, pressed his ear against the wood.
"Soufiane!" a voice hissed.
He cracked the door open.
There was his cousin, Anas, sweat dripping down his face. Behind him stood Nabil, eyes darting like a cornered animal, and Zak, pale, trembling, his breath shallow and fast.
"What are you doing here?" Soufiane whispered, knife gripped tight in his hand.
Anas shoved past him, slamming the door shut with his shoulder. "The streets aren't safe," he panted. "We saw them—people changing. They're not themselves anymore. They're attacking, biting. It's spreading too fast."
Zak's hands trembled uncontrollably. His lips barely formed the words. "We need to leave. We need to get out now. The city won't hold."
Nabil began pacing the cramped apartment, his movements sharp, restless. "Leave? Where? Every road is blocked. Every neighborhood is chaos. If we want to survive, we stop thinking like victims. We take what we need—food, weapons, whatever. Forget rules. Forget neighbors. It's survival now."
Their voices collided in the small room, fear transforming into argument.
Anas, the practical one, trying to keep order.
Zak, the frightened, shaking, already half broken by what he'd seen.
Nabil, reckless, teeth bared at the world, ready to turn his rage into action.
And Soufiane—stuck between them all, clutching a knife that suddenly felt too small, too fragile against the enormity of what was happening outside.
His parents were unreachable. His son was far away, across closed borders. His sister and her children safe—or trapped—in Germany. His family scattered like leaves in a storm.
And now, even here, in the middle of the night, with cousins at his side, the cracks of division were already showing. Fear was splitting them apart before anything else could.
Soufiane's gaze drifted to the window. Beyond the glass, the streets of Casablanca lay shrouded in shadows. Distant screams rose and fell like waves. The city was unraveling, thread by thread.
He turned back to his cousins. The strategist, the fearful, the reckless.
The night had only just begun.
And Casablanca was already drowning in darkness.