The night pressed heavy on the forest. The group had settled in the hollow of a ridge, hidden among thick pines where the smell of damp earth clung to their clothes. A small fire crackled faintly, no more than embers—just enough to keep the cold at bay. No one spoke at first; their breaths and the distant whisper of the wind were the only sounds. But the silence wasn't peace—it was the silence of people holding back words that could break everything.
Soufiane sat apart, his knife in his hands, turning it slowly so the faint firelight gleamed along the blade. His eyes were locked on nothing, but his mind raced, images flashing like sparks: Rachid's face among the prisoners, the bruises and chains, the way Ayoub's men had laughed as they shoved them along the dirt path.
Meriem finally broke the silence. "We can't just sit here. He's my cousin, Soufiane. He's family." Her voice trembled but carried a sharp edge.
Before Soufiane could answer, Amal spoke. "And what about us? We're barely surviving as it is. If we go after them now, with nothing but knives and one pistol between us, we'll all end up chained or dead. Is that what you want?"
Her words cut deeper than she meant. Meriem flinched but didn't back down. "So what, Amal? You'd rather walk away? Pretend we didn't see?"
Abderrazak leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. His calm tone didn't soften the gravity of his words. "This isn't about family or strangers. This is about Ayoub. That man runs his group like a butcher's market. If we let them keep growing, they'll swallow every survivor between here and Valencia. We won't be safe no matter where we run."
Amal shook her head, dark hair falling into her face. "So what's the plan then? March into their camp with righteous anger and hope the infected finish what we can't?"
Soufiane's grip on the knife tightened until his knuckles turned white. He spoke finally, voice low but heavy with conviction. "I've seen what happens when you ignore men like Ayoub. They don't disappear. They take more. They take everything." He looked at Meriem, then Abderrazak, then Amal. "This isn't about choosing to fight. The fight is already coming. We either strike first, or we wait for him to find us."
A tense silence followed, broken only by the crackling of embers. Amal met his gaze, defiant but weary. "And if you're wrong? If rushing into this gets us all killed?"
Soufiane didn't blink. "Then at least we die standing. Not chained. Not watching others scream while we hide in the trees."
The weight of his words settled on the group. Meriem's eyes glistened in the firelight, torn between fear and hope. Abderrazak gave the faintest nod, jaw clenched. Amal turned away, hugging her knees to her chest, silent now but trembling.
From the darkness beyond the ridge, a faint sound drifted—harsh laughter, the snapping of branches, boots crunching against leaves. Soufiane rose slowly, moving to the edge of the hill to peer through the branches. Far in the distance, torchlight flickered. Ayoub's men, returning to their camp with their prisoners.
He turned back to the group, his decision carved into his face like stone. "Tomorrow we move closer. We watch. We learn their patterns. And when the moment comes, we strike. There's no turning back."
The fire sputtered low, shadows dancing across their faces. None of them answered, but the truth hung unspoken between them: tonight was the last night they could pretend they still had a choice.