The first light of dawn crept across the Atlantic, casting a pale, trembling glow over the restless water. Soufiane stood at the bow, his hands firm on the boat's tiller, every sense alert. The ocean seemed endless, black and merciless, and the small vessel heaved with each swelling wave. His dark eyes scanned the horizon, searching for signs of land, danger, or anything familiar in this new, broken world.
At 1m84, Soufiane's presence was commanding, not because of brute muscle but because of the calm determination etched into his posture. Born and raised in Hay-Mohammadi, he had survived streets that demanded quick reflexes and sharper instincts. Kickboxing and full-contact fights as a teenager had forged his body, yes, but also a mind that could calculate risk and act decisively under pressure. Every heartbeat, every movement was a reminder: survival was never given; it was earned.
His gaze fell to the tattoo on his right forearm, the small angel clutching a tiny hand, the name Younes etched beneath it. Seven years old, innocent, waiting somewhere in the Netherlands, unaware that his father was crossing oceans in the dead of night, fighting death, chaos, and despair for a chance to see him again. The angel was more than ink; it was a compass, a promise. Every glance at it strengthened his resolve.
Beside him, Amal adjusted their supplies with quiet precision. At 1m65, she was shorter than Soufiane but compact and strong, a presence that balanced the boat and their fragile hope. Her dark eyes swept the waves, alert for any threat—hostile survivors, floating debris, or the distant, haunting possibility of infected still wandering the coasts. Despite exhaustion, she moved with a quiet grace, her body coiled with readiness.
Meriem clutched a small blanket around her shoulders, her eyes wide but alert. She stayed close to Amal, trusting, yet aware that this journey would demand more from her than she had ever imagined. The Atlantic roared around them, waves splashing against the hull, saltwater stinging their skin and eyes, but Soufiane's presence grounded them.
"The coast is closer," he murmured, voice low and steady, almost to himself. "But it's never safe out here. Not until we reach land."
Amal nodded, gripping the side of the boat, muscles taut. "We'll survive. Together." Her tone was soft but unwavering, the kind of strength Soufiane relied on when the night seemed endless.
He shifted slightly, flexing his forearm, letting the morning light glint off the angel tattoo. Each wave that rocked the boat felt like a test—would they tip, or would they endure? He remembered the streets of Hay-Mohammadi, the alleys, the lessons in caution and speed, the nights of silent terror when one wrong step could mean a lifetime in the hospital or worse. The memory now merged with the present: a small boat against the vast, uncaring Atlantic. Same principles, different battlefield.
Soufiane's mind wandered briefly to Casablanca—smoke curling into the night sky, the city reduced to rubble, fires still burning in distant memory. He thought of Zahira, safe somewhere in Germany, waiting without knowing what had happened. He thought of Younes, the small boy who had no understanding of the chaos swallowing the world. And he thought of the cousins, Anas, Nabil, Zak—left behind, yet alive in hope.
The wind whipped harder, carrying the tang of salt and seaweed, and the boat shuddered under another wave. Soufiane adjusted the tiller, Amal pressed closer to Meriem, their breathing synchronized with the rhythm of the ocean. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, elongated by the sheer enormity of the night and the challenge ahead.
Then, in the distance, shadows emerged—dark shapes moving along the horizon. Soufiane squinted, his heart tightening. Not land yet, not rescue, but perhaps a glimpse of promise. Or danger. The shadows shifted, and with them came a reminder: survival on the water was as treacherous as survival on the streets. One wrong decision, one distracted thought, and it could all end here.
He tightened his grip on the tiller, muscles coiling with instinct. "Stay close," he muttered. "No mistakes. No distractions."
Amal nodded, brushing damp strands of hair from her eyes. Meriem clutched the blanket tighter. The Atlantic stretched before them, black and endless, but for the first time in hours, Soufiane allowed himself a flicker of something dangerous: hope. Fragile, yes, but real.
The boat pitched violently as another wave approached. Soufiane adjusted the tiller, Amal bracing herself, and Meriem clung tighter. Shadows on the horizon, the roar of the ocean, the distant memory of a city burning—they all reminded him that this was far from over. But as long as he had his son's name on his arm, Amal by his side, and Meriem trusting him, he would fight. The night might be dark, the waters merciless, but Hay-Mohammadi had taught him this: when the world tests you, you rise—or you sink.
And Soufiane was not sinking.