The forest air grew heavier as Soufiane and Abderrazak crouched behind the ridge, pressed into the shadows, every sense taut. The column of prisoners wound its way down the narrow, dirt path, chains clinking, boots thudding, and the occasional desperate cry tearing through the night. Each sound sliced sharper than the chill wind that whipped through the pines, raising goosebumps along their skin. Soufiane's knife hand twitched, fingers curling around the hilt as if it could anticipate the violence below. His jaw ground against itself, muscles tight enough to ache.
Then, amidst the staggering, beaten figures, his eyes caught a face.
He froze.
It was him.
Among the stumbling prisoners, shoulders hunched and beard ragged, walked a man whose gaze flicked upward, almost as if sensing the presence in the treeline. Their eyes met for a heartbeat—and Soufiane's chest slammed violently, a thundering drum of recognition and panic.
"Mourad…?" His whisper cracked, almost swallowed by the sighing wind.
Abderrazak squinted, and for a moment the faint light made him doubt what he saw. Then the lines of shock and horror etched across his face confirmed it. "No way… Mourad Hamani?" His voice broke into a harsh, incredulous whisper, choked by emotion. "Wallah… it's him!"
Memories rushed forward unbidden, relentless. The dusty streets of Hay Mohammadi. Teenage scraps outside the old café. Late-night laughter as they pooled coins, betting on Melbet and 1xBet. Mourad—the friend who had left for Spain years ago, chasing work, chasing a new life, chasing hope.
Now, chained and bruised, Mourad looked like a ghost of that boy they once knew. His face was thinner, skin sallow, the hair overgrown and unkempt. Yet, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the pain and the hunger, the stubborn fire in his eyes—the defiance that had never left him—still blazed.
Abderrazak's knuckles went white as he gripped the rough rock beneath him. "They got him… those bastards got him," he muttered, teeth clenched, jaw rigid.
Soufiane remained perfectly still, the heat of fury rising in his chest like molten metal. Mourad was not just another survivor. He was a fragment of home, a shard of the past, a tether to a life that had once been simple, before the world bled into chaos.
Behind them, Amal's voice was low but urgent. "Do you know him?"
Soufiane nodded, eyes locked on the procession below, dark and unblinking. "We grew up together," he said, his voice low and flat, like steel scraping stone. "He's family."
Amal's hand brushed his arm, steadying but firm, grounding him in the moment. "Then we can't rush in blind," she said. "If Ayoub's men have him, they'll use him as a shield. One wrong move and it's over before it begins."
Down on the trail, the bulky, commanding figure of Ayoub Essouibrat emerged. His booming laughter rolled through the trees like thunder, each note a ripple of control. One of the prisoners stumbled; a rifle butt corrected him instantly, and a pained cry followed. The sound sent a shiver down Soufiane's spine. Blood ran cold in his veins—not for himself, but for Mourad.
He leaned closer to Abderrazak, whisper trembling with a mix of fury and resolve. "We're not leaving him with them."
Abderrazak's dark eyes burned with agreement, the reflection of the distant torches dancing across his face. "No. Not Mourad. Never him."
The group stayed hidden, pressed into the shadows as the procession wound deeper into the forest. Mourad didn't look back again, but the memory of that single glance—the recognition, the plea—seared into Soufiane's mind. It was both warning and promise.
When the last soldier disappeared into the dense line of pines, Soufiane exhaled slowly, though the fire in his chest only grew hotter. Amal studied his face, concern etched deep in every line.
"You want to save him," she said quietly. "But to go after him means going after Ayoub. That's not just a rescue—it's war."
Soufiane's silence spoke louder than words ever could. Every muscle in his body coiled, ready, and his eyes, dark and unyielding, stared through the night toward where Mourad had vanished.
The forest seemed to tighten around them. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves whispered the same message: time was slipping, danger was near, and the reckoning would come soon.
Soufiane sharpened his knife slowly, deliberately. The scrape of steel against stone echoed like a drumbeat, each spark leaping into the darkness like a promise of retribution.
Mourad Hamani would not be left behind.
And when Soufiane finally lifted his gaze to the trees, his voice was low, resolute, a whisper of iron against the night.
"We take him back… even if it kills us."