The clang of metal still hung in the air, heavy and deliberate. Soufiane's hand tightened around his knife, the blade catching the last embers of sunset. His eyes locked on the silhouette ahead—Ayoub Essouibrat, standing as if the village itself bowed to his presence. It didn't matter that he was wounded. His posture carried the weight of command, of menace, of inevitability.
Behind Soufiane, the group shifted. Meriem drew her rifle close, her knuckles pale against the stock. Amal's breath quickened, her bandaged arm trembling but still ready to raise her pistol. Mourad froze, guilt and fear carving fresh lines into his bruised face. Abderrazak stepped slightly forward, placing himself at Soufiane's flank like a wall of iron.
The silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of weeds and the faint creak of broken shutters in the wind. Then Ayoub moved—not rushing, not threatening, but walking slowly toward them, his boots crunching against gravel. His calmness was worse than a charge; it was the calm of a predator who already believed the prey was cornered.
"You're a long way from safety, Soufiane," Ayoub's voice carried across the ruined street, deep and steady, as if he were speaking not just to the group but to the bones of the village itself. "You can run through forests, you can hide in caves, but you'll never outrun me. You know that."
Soufiane stepped forward, the fire in his chest steadying his voice. "You're alive," he said flatly. "That was your mistake."
Ayoub chuckled, the sound dry as gravel. "Alive is all I need. Alive means I can take from you again, and again, until there's nothing left. And when you finally beg me to finish it—maybe I won't. Maybe I'll let you crawl."
Meriem lifted her rifle, the barrel shaking slightly. "Keep talking, monster," she spat, "and I'll put a bullet through your skull."
Ayoub's eyes flicked to her, amused. "So young. So eager. You think bullets are enough for me? No. You'll waste them, and I'll take your screams as payment."
Soufiane's hand shot up, signaling Meriem to hold. Her anger simmered, but she obeyed. This wasn't the moment to fire—not yet.
Abderrazak leaned close, whispering so only Soufiane could hear. "This is wrong. Too easy. He's stalling."
Soufiane's jaw tightened. He knew Abderrazak was right. Ayoub never walked alone. If he was standing here in the open, it meant only one thing: the village was already his trap.
As if on cue, movement stirred in the shadows. Figures emerged from doorways, from behind collapsed walls, from the steeple's broken arch. At least a dozen men, hardened by survival and blood, their weapons crude but lethal. Ayoub's hunters. They had been waiting, silent as stones, until now.
Amal hissed under her breath. "He's surrounded us."
"No," Soufiane said, voice firm, blade raised. "He's surrounded himself."
The words seemed to steady the group. They pressed in closer, back-to-back, weapons out, a circle of defiance in the heart of the ruined village. Ayoub stopped a few paces away, smiling as his men closed in like wolves.
"You've carried hope too long," Ayoub said softly, almost kindly. "Let me take it from you. It will hurt less if you give it willingly."
Soufiane's reply came sharp as steel. "You'll have to rip it from my hands."
The first of Ayoub's men lunged, a wild swing of a machete cutting the air. Abderrazak met him with a brutal crack of his crowbar, the sound of breaking bone echoing through the street. Another rushed Amal, only to stumble back as she fired, her shot grazing his shoulder. Meriem pulled the trigger next, the blast of her rifle shattering the silence completely.
Chaos erupted.
The village came alive with the clash of steel, the thunder of gunfire, the guttural cries of men fighting for survival. Dust rose, smoke curled, and the dying light painted every strike in shades of blood. Soufiane moved through it like a shadow, knife flashing, his body guided by instinct and rage.
But through the blur of violence, Ayoub did not move. He stood, watching, his smile never faltering, as though the battle were nothing more than a play staged for his amusement.
Then, at last, he stepped forward. His eyes locked with Soufiane's, unblinking. His voice cut through the chaos, directed at him alone.
"You can't save them all, Soufiane. Before this night is done, one of yours will die by my hand."
Soufiane's chest tightened, rage boiling into focus. He raised his knife, ready to strike, ready to silence Ayoub once and for all—
When a scream ripped through the night.
Meriem's.
Soufiane spun, eyes wide. She was on the ground, her rifle fallen, one of Ayoub's men dragging her by the hair into the shadows.
And Ayoub… Ayoub was laughing.