The three men moved with predatory grace, fanning out across the narrow street, circling Soufiane and his cousins like wolves sizing up prey. Their boots crunched over broken glass, echoing faintly off the crumbling walls of Casablanca's deserted buildings. The leader twirled his crowbar lazily, the metal catching the weak morning light. His thin grin was sharp, predatory, and Soufiane's stomach tightened in response.
Nabil's voice cut through the tension, low and dangerous. "We don't have much. But if you want it, come take it." His chest heaved, a mixture of fear and defiance boiling just beneath the surface.
"Shut up," Anas hissed, shooting Nabil a glare sharp enough to cut metal. "This isn't the time. Control yourself."
The strangers laughed, cruel and slow, savoring the fear they assumed they saw. But Soufiane felt a strange clarity. He wasn't afraid—not exactly. His pulse raced, but his mind had never been sharper. He knew that surrender meant more than losing supplies. It meant losing tomorrow.
The leader lunged forward, crowbar arcing toward Nabil's head. Time slowed.
Soufiane didn't think—he acted. He shoved Nabil to the side, muscles coiling with instinct honed from long hours at the call center, when split-second decisions had to be made with cold precision. The fishing knife came up, a blur. The blade sliced across the attacker's forearm, tearing flesh and sending a hiss of pain into the air. The man stumbled back, clutching his arm, eyes wide with shock.
Chaos erupted.
Anas tackled the second man to the ground, fists raining down in controlled fury. Every punch carried desperation and strategy, the sort of violence born only when survival depends on it. Nabil's fury ignited, and he grabbed a loose brick from the street, swinging with wild precision into the third man's jaw. The brick cracked the bone with a sickening snap.
Zak froze, pressed against the wall, body stiff with terror. His wide eyes reflected both horror and shame, paralyzed by the raw brutality of life and death unfolding before him.
The fight was over as quickly as it began. Two of the men limped into the shadows, groaning, their pride and arms broken. One lay unconscious, sprawled across the asphalt, blood pooling beneath him and the cousins.
Soufiane wiped the knife on his sleeve, hands steady now. Too steady. The weight of what he had done—what he had become—settled deep in his chest.
Nabil spat on the ground, voice low and proud. "That's what happens when people think they can take from us." There was a spark of exhilaration in his eyes, a dangerous thrill in the violence.
Anas shook his head, tension still gripping his frame. "We can't afford fights like this. Every shout, every movement draws more eyes, more trouble." His gaze flicked toward the shadows of the ruined city, faint groans already echoing from distant streets.
Soufiane's eyes found Zak, still trembling against the wall. Their gazes met, and Soufiane understood: survival wasn't only about strength or courage. It was about decisions, about taking action when others could not—or would not. Zak had done nothing, and that hesitation might, in the days to come, be the difference between life and death.
For now, they were alive.
But the boundary between family and strangers had shifted irrevocably.
Soufiane sheathed the knife, heart pounding in rhythm with the city's distant screams. Each breath carried the metallic tang of blood and dust. The world outside their fragile barricade was no longer just dangerous—it was unrecognizable.
And on that edge, Soufiane realized that trust had become as scarce as clean water.
In this new world, the line between ally and enemy could vanish in a heartbeat.