The morning was gray, the kind of sky that felt heavy with unspoken warnings. Soufiane and his group had left the shelter behind them, their steps pressing into the damp earth as they moved cautiously east. Every stride carried not just the weight of exhaustion, but the sharp edge of purpose: Europe. Zahira in Germany. Younes in Holland. Soufiane's heart beat in rhythm with those names, each one a beacon pulling him through the fog of uncertainty.
Amal walked beside him, her bandaged arm held close to her chest. She didn't complain, but every so often, a faint wince betrayed her pain. Meriem kept pace with Mourad, steadying him when his bruised legs faltered. Abderrazak trailed slightly behind, his crowbar balanced across his broad shoulders, always ready, always alert. Their silence wasn't just fatigue—it was survival. Too many words risked drawing the forest's attention.
A broken road emerged from the trees, cracked asphalt lined with weeds and broken signs pointing to places that no longer mattered. Soufiane stopped, studying the faded arrows. East meant a crossing eventually, a path toward the border. But it also meant exposure. The road was open, and open meant vulnerable.
"We can't take it straight," Abderrazak muttered, his eyes sweeping the horizon. "Too clear. Too easy to follow."
Soufiane nodded. "We'll shadow it. Use the trees. But we move faster now. We don't know how long before Ayoub regroups."
At the sound of his name, the group stiffened. Ayoub Essouibrat had survived—wounded, but alive. That truth hung over them like a blade. He was not the kind of man to lick his wounds quietly. He would hunt them. And when he did, he would come not just for blood, but for vengeance.
Mourad's voice was low, hoarse from pain. "You should've left me," he said, half to himself. "If he comes after anyone, it'll be me."
Soufiane's jaw tightened. "No one gets left behind. Not you. Not ever. Don't speak of it again."
Mourad fell silent, but the guilt lingered in his eyes, a shadow that refused to fade.
Hours passed. The forest thinned, giving way to farmlands now overrun with weeds. Rusted tractors lay half-buried in grass, skeletal remains of livestock scattered across fields. Civilization had once thrived here. Now it was just another graveyard.
Meriem broke the silence. "How do we even make it? Borders, roads, cities—everything will be crawling with scavengers or worse. And Ayoub's reach… it doesn't end in Morocco. If he wants, he'll find us even in Europe."
Her words were sharp, edged with fear, but Soufiane didn't flinch. He turned his gaze east, toward the horizon hidden by haze. "Let him try," he said quietly. "He follows us, we'll bury him where he stands. But Zahira waits. Younes waits. I won't stop until they're safe."
There was no argument to give. His voice carried the weight of command and desperation, a mix that bound the others tighter to his cause. Amal's eyes softened, catching his determination. For a moment, pain didn't matter—only forward.
By dusk, they reached the remnants of a village. Houses with collapsed roofs leaned like drunks in the twilight. A church steeple rose in the distance, cracked but still standing, its bell long silent. It was a place of shelter, perhaps, but also a trap. Any survivor—or predator—could be watching.
Soufiane lifted his fist, signaling a halt. The group crouched low among the ruins of an old stone wall. The air carried the faint scent of smoke—not fresh, but not old either. Someone had been here. Recently.
Abderrazak frowned. "Not good. Could be scouts. Could be worse."
Soufiane studied the village, every shattered window, every shadow stretching long in the dying light. His instincts screamed danger, yet retreat wasn't an option. They needed food. They needed supplies. They needed rest.
He turned to the others. "We move in. Quiet. Careful. If there's anyone left here, we deal with it. If not…" He paused, eyes narrowing on the distant steeple. "…we make it ours, for tonight."
The group exchanged uneasy glances but followed. Step by step, they crept toward the village, weapons ready, hearts pounding.
And then—
A sound.
A single clang of metal against stone, sharp and deliberate, echoing from the heart of the village.
Soufiane froze. It wasn't an accident. It was a signal.
From the shadows, a figure stepped into the open, silhouetted by the fading sun. Broad shoulders, calm movements, eyes glinting with cold intent.
Soufiane's breath caught in his throat. He knew that stance. That presence.
Ayoub Essouibrat was here.
And he was waiting.