The scream tore through the village, sharp and raw, cutting across the clash of steel and the thunder of gunfire. Soufiane's head snapped toward the sound, his gut twisting with a rage that threatened to swallow reason whole.
Meriem.
She was being dragged into the darkness of a half-collapsed house, her boots kicking against the dirt, her nails clawing at the arm that held her down. The man's face was hidden in shadow, but the brutality of his grip told Soufiane all he needed: she was prey now, bait in Ayoub's snare.
"Soufiane!" Amal shouted, firing another desperate shot that sent sparks off stone. "Go! We'll hold them!"
But Soufiane didn't move. His body screamed to run after Meriem, to cut down whoever dared touch her, but his mind—honed through blood, sharpened by loss—held him still. This was Ayoub's game. The timing, the precision, the laughter still echoing in the ruins… none of it was coincidence.
Ayoub's voice rose above the chaos, smooth as oil, carrying across the burning village.
"Do you hear her, Soufiane? Do you hear how thin her screams sound in the night? That's the sound of hope breaking. The sound of weakness begging for mercy."
Soufiane's blade trembled in his grip, not from fear, but from the force of holding himself back. He could almost see Ayoub in his mind—smiling, patient, savoring the torment like wine.
"Come after her," Ayoub continued. "Rush into the shadows. Trade your reason for rage. It's what you want, isn't it? To save her?"
Abderrazak smashed his crowbar into another attacker, teeth bared in fury. "Don't listen to him, Soufiane! He wants you blind!"
But the choice clawed at Soufiane's chest. Every heartbeat whispered her name. Every second that passed painted darker images in his head—Meriem beaten, silenced, lifeless.
From the doorway where she had been taken, a new sound emerged: her voice, gasping, but still defiant. "Don't you dare, Soufiane!" she shouted, words cut short by a blow. "Don't—don't let him win—"
Then silence.
The world seemed to stop. Smoke hung in the air like a curtain, dust caught in the dying light, every sound muffled by the thundering of Soufiane's own pulse.
Ayoub stepped into view at last, framed by firelight and ruin. His hunting knife glinted in his hand, though he hadn't lifted it yet. His smile was calm, controlled. A man who knew every piece of the board belonged to him.
"You have a choice, Soufiane," he said, voice carrying through the carnage. "Save the girl and lose the fight… or watch her suffer and keep your men alive. Either way, you lose."
Amal's pistol clicked empty. She ducked behind a crumbling wall, sweat and blood streaking her face. "He's splitting us apart," she hissed. "He wants you desperate. Don't—don't give him what he wants."
Soufiane's grip tightened on his knife. His men fought around him, but their movements blurred. All he saw was Ayoub, standing untouched, holding Meriem's fate like a dagger at his throat.
The leader in him whispered: Wait. Think. Plan.
The brother in him screamed: Move. Kill. Save her.
And between the two, a silence stretched—a silence Ayoub filled with poison.
"You pretend to be strong, Soufiane," Ayoub said, stepping closer, his men falling back to let him advance. "But strength is knowing when to sacrifice. When to cut the weak away to save yourself. That's what makes me stronger than you. I don't hesitate. I don't care. And that's why you will always crawl in my shadow."
Soufiane's eyes burned as he finally raised his blade. His voice was low, steady, but carried across the ruined street like a vow carved in stone.
"You think I'll crawl? No, Ayoub. I'll cut my way out of your shadow. And when I do—you'll beg me to end you."
Ayoub laughed, the sound rolling like thunder through the broken village.
"Then come, Soufiane. Prove it. Step into the dark. See what you lose first."
And as the fire guttered low and the hunters circled tighter, Soufiane faced the edge of an impossible choice—knowing whatever path he took, Ayoub had already prepared the knife.