"I was lucky," Soufiane said quietly, settling beside her. His muscles ached from running, from fighting, from living, and yet the tension didn't fade. "The city fell too fast. I tried… to find my parents, my son… but everything is burning. Everything is gone."
Her gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, he could almost believe the world was normal again. "Your boy. Younes, right? I remember you showed me once… the tattoo on your arm."
Soufiane looked down. The little angel etched into his forearm stared back, its delicate hand reaching upward, the name Younes written below. Years ago, it had been a symbol of love, of hope. Now, it was a reminder of what was at stake—what he had to fight for. His throat tightened.
"He's the reason I can't stop," he murmured. "No matter what happens here, I have to reach him."
Amal shifted closer, sitting beside him. Her presence was grounding, human, a tether in a world gone mad. Back in the office, she had lifted him through nights heavy with despair; now, in the ruins of Casablanca, she offered the same fragile spark of hope.
"And you?" Soufiane asked softly, curiosity cutting through the tense air.
Her jaw tightened, eyes distant. "I lost my brother on the first day. I… I don't know if anyone else in my family is alive." Her voice cracked as she swallowed, forcing words past the raw grief. "But I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet."
Silence fell again, broken only by the distant roar of fire and the rhythmic crash of the Atlantic waves. Soufiane closed his eyes, letting the sounds anchor him.
"I found a boat," he finally said, voice low. "Hidden near the pier. Not much, but it could get us out. To somewhere safer. Europe, maybe."
Amal's eyes flicked toward him, glistening with both fear and resolve. "If you go, I go with you. Alone… I won't make it."
Soufiane nodded, a surge of quiet relief passing through him. He had found not just an ally, but a partner who had already, in her own way, helped him survive his darkest days. The weight of the apocalypse was lighter with her by his side.
Outside, the distant cries of the infected punctuated the night, and Soufiane's gaze drifted toward the windows. Shadows shifted in the firelight, each flicker a reminder that danger never rested. Yet for the first time since the world had turned upside down, he didn't feel entirely alone.
Amal moved closer, brushing dust from her sleeve. Her hand lingered near the pipe, ready, tense—but steady beside him. Soufiane could feel her determination, matching his own. Two against the dark, two against everything the city and the horde could throw at them.
He drew a slow breath, letting the salty wind from the ocean fill his lungs. Survival was no longer just about skill or luck—it was about partnership, trust, and the fragile hope that even in a world engulfed in fire, people could still fight for something more.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, meeting her gaze, "we leave. Together. No hesitation. We move toward the pier and toward… hope."
Amal nodded, and for the first time in weeks, a small, genuine smile crossed her face. Outside, the infected howled into the night, but for now, in this broken storefront, the two of them shared something stronger than fear.
Together, they would face the darkness.
The city was quieter now, but quieter did not mean safe. Casablanca's heart had turned into a graveyard of steel, ash, and the lingering stench of decay. Soufiane and Amal moved cautiously through the wreckage of a supermarket near the boulevard, their boots crunching over broken glass and fallen shelves. Shadows stretched long beneath the flickering light of fire from distant ruins.