Soufiane's pulse pounded in his ears, loud enough to drown out the chaos around him. The village burned, every shadow stretching into a potential threat, and somewhere inside the wreckage, Meriem's life hung in the balance. Ayoub Essouibrat thought he controlled the board, that every move Soufiane made would be predictable, desperate, and doomed. He had miscalculated.
Soufiane crouched behind the crumbling wall, blade pressed tight against his palm, eyes tracing the silhouettes of Ayoub's men. Their postures were rigid, disciplined—but rigid meant predictable. The scent of smoke and fear mixed with the sharp tang of blood in the air. He inhaled, counting heartbeats, mapping exits, envisioning the paths his enemies would take, predicting their expectations.
"Abderrazak, flank left," he whispered, low and urgent. "Amal, cover the rear. Keep your heads down and wait for my signal. Watch for traps—they'll expect us to charge blindly."
The two nodded, understanding without words. They had trained for this in fragments, improvising under fire, learning to move like shadows, like predators themselves.
Soufiane took a deep breath, letting the firelight illuminate his plan. He could see Ayoub, standing at the center, the prize clutched in his grip: Meriem. Her body was bent but defiant, eyes burning with a mixture of terror and stubborn courage. Every second he waited, the danger grew—but every second he rushed recklessly, it grew faster.
He slipped from cover, moving like water over stone, silent and fluid. Each step was calculated, each shadow a shield. He passed fallen debris, skirts of smoke, and the deadened hollows of ruined walls, always keeping Ayoub in sight.
A sudden shout erupted behind him, and a soldier stumbled over the rubble. Soufiane froze, listening to the chaos ripple outward. Amal's pistol barked once, twice, pulling attention to her—but she stayed low, precise, holding the enemy at bay without revealing the full extent of their plan.
Soufiane pressed forward, knife ready. He imagined the movements in his head, predicting every reflex, every instinct Ayoub would rely on. Then, with a sudden pivot, he hurled a small rock toward a pile of debris behind one of the guards. The sound cracked sharply. Heads turned, reflexively, toward the noise.
In that heartbeat, Soufiane sprang. Knife slashing through air, he neutralized the first guard before the man could raise his weapon. Another soldier lunged—he rolled under the swing of a crowbar and struck hard, sending the attacker sprawling into smoke and rubble.
Meriem's muffled gasp told him she was watching, calculating, holding on. He wouldn't fail her—not here, not now.
Soufiane advanced steadily, each move precise, each strike choreographed by instinct and anger. He forced Ayoub's men back, herding them into chokepoints, drawing them away from Meriem, breaking their formation without allowing a single soldier to corner him.
Ayoub's voice cut across the village, low and dangerous, "You think you can outmaneuver me? You're in my fire now, Soufiane."
Soufiane didn't respond. He let the steel of his knife do the talking, the fire of his mind guiding every motion. One by one, he cleared a path, leading Meriem toward cover, toward the narrow alleyways where Ayoub's bulk couldn't dominate.
Finally, with a calculated sprint, he reached her side. "Hold on," he whispered. She grabbed his arm, her weight light against his strength. Together, they moved as one—slipping through shadows, ducking behind walls, and leaving confusion in their wake.
Behind them, Ayoub's fury rang out, unbroken and sharp. But Soufiane had the advantage of initiative, of surprise, of cold, calculated risk.
They vanished into the ruins, leaving the chaos and fire behind, Meriem safe for the moment. Soufiane's chest heaved, his mind already racing ahead—Ayoub had survived this round, but now Soufiane had the leverage. The hunter could strike, but he would have to reckon with Soufiane's cunning first.
And in the silence after their flight, one thought burned brighter than any fire: Soufiane was not just surviving. He was preparing. And Ayoub would pay—on his terms.