The night air in the camp was heavy with smoke and fear, carrying the acrid tang of charred wood from the destroyed camp behind them. Fires burned low, their light barely reaching beyond the ring of survivors huddled together in their fragile circle. The earlier arguments and panic had quieted, replaced by the hollow rhythm of exhaustion. And yet within that silence, even the smallest gestures carried weight heavier than any sword or wall.
Soufiane sat near the edge of the circle, the rough edge of a broken machete pressed against a sharpening stone. Each scrape rang sharp and steady, a small rhythm to anchor his thoughts, though his mind refused to settle. His eyes flicked repeatedly to the horizon in the dark, imagining Younes' small face smiling up at him, the memory burning across his forearm as vividly as the tattoo etched there. The ache of separation gnawed at him, but he buried it deep, as he always did, letting it fuel determination rather than despair.
Across from him, Amal adjusted Meriem's scarf, tucking loose strands of hair behind the girl's ears with gentle hands. "You should rest," she said softly, voice barely more than a whisper. "Tomorrow won't be easy."
Meriem nodded, but her eyes did not close. Instead, they wandered toward Abderrazak, who sat a little apart from the circle, leaning back against a broken timber post. His arms were crossed, his posture relaxed yet tense, and even in the dim firelight, the faint tug of a smirk softened the hard edges of his face.
"You don't look like someone ready to sleep," he remarked, tone lighter than usual, almost playful.
Meriem hesitated, then offered a small, tired smile. "And you do?"
Abderrazak chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "Not really. I've never been good at pretending things are fine. Maybe that's my problem."
Soufiane observed the exchange, dark eyes narrowing slightly. He had known Abderrazak for years—nights of reckless football bets, fights in shadowed alleys, laughter masking deeper shadows—and to hear him speak differently now, softer, less guarded, was unexpected.
Amal noticed too. She leaned closer to Soufiane, whispering with a faint edge of concern, "It's strange… he seems different with her."
Soufiane only shrugged, though his chest tightened with a feeling he could not name. The world had fallen apart, yet even here, amidst the ruin, new bonds were forming—fragile sparks in the cold dark.
Hours passed. Most of the camp drifted into uneasy sleep, wrapped in blankets and fear. Abderrazak rose silently and walked toward the barricades. Meriem, restless and curious, followed several steps behind. Soufiane thought about calling her back but remained still, watching the silhouettes against the flickering fire.
At the edge of the camp, the night stretched wide and endless. Faint groans from the distant infected whispered across the fields, carried on the chill wind. Abderrazak stood with hands tucked into his jacket pockets, staring outward as if daring the darkness itself to respond.
"You're always looking out there," Meriem said quietly, voice tentative.
He glanced at her, one brow raised, a shadow of amusement in his gaze. "And you're always looking at me."
Her cheeks warmed under the firelight. "You think too much of yourself."
"Maybe," he admitted, grin softening. "But it's rare anyone looks my way without expecting trouble. Feels… different."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The silence was not oppressive this time; it was fragile, tentative, almost as if something new was being born amidst the ruin.
When Meriem finally turned back toward the fire, Abderrazak let out a long breath, watching her silhouette merge with the warm glow. Beneath the mask of cynicism, beneath years of survival instinct and self-preservation, something stirred that he hadn't expected.
Back at the fire, Soufiane lay awake, listening to the night. He knew bonds like these could be dangerous—they distracted from survival—but as he looked at Amal curled against Meriem, at Abderrazak seated with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, he wondered if hope could exist beyond sheer endurance. Perhaps connection—small, human, fleeting—was another form of survival.
And yet, the night carried unease. A faint, almost imperceptible rustle of movement came from beyond the barricade. Soufiane's hand tightened around the machete. Even as warmth flickered inside them, he knew the world beyond the fire was still dark and merciless. Something—or someone—was watching. Waiting.
For the first time in days, a flicker of warmth lingered in the cold. But the night held its secrets close, and whatever approached in the shadows promised that the comfort would not last.