*chirp… *chirp…
The sound of birds chirping faintly slipped through the window, soft but steady, mixing with the distant hum of the waking neighborhood.
Morning light crept slowly into the room, streaks of pale gold slipping past the curtains and cutting across the floor, climbing the walls until they reached the edge of Razan's bed.
But Razan hadn't moved.
He was still sitting upright, back hunched slightly, eyes wide and bloodshot from the sleepless night.
His gaze was fixed on nothing, his mind locked on the memory of the glowing screen that had appeared before him.
"I didn't get to sleep thinking about that shit…" he muttered, his voice low and sharp, breaking the silence.
"Ten days… and prepare?"
He dragged his hands through his hair, tugging at it in frustration before letting out a heavy exhale.
His body felt heavy, his chest tight, as though the words themselves had latched onto him and refused to let go.
Finally, he pushed himself to his feet, the bed creaking under the shift of weight.
He stood still for a moment, fists clenched at his sides, before muttering again.
"If it's true, then I'll need to prepare…" His jaw tightened, his voice firm but uncertain.
"A transparent screen doesn't just pop up out of nowhere."
.
.
.
Moments passed before Razan was fully dressed, his casual clothes thrown on without much care.
He pulled the door open and stepped out, descending the flight of stairs with slow, deliberate steps.
At the bottom, just near the front door, he caught sight of them—his father and stepmother—already prepared to leave for work.
He paused mid-step, his body stiffening.
For a brief second he considered retreating back upstairs, but he forced himself forward.
His movement entered their peripheral vision, and both of them turned their heads toward him.
No words were exchanged.
Their eyes met his, then followed him as he walked past them toward the door.
For a moment, it seemed he might pass without a confrontation.
But then—
"Since when will you start talking to us more, Razan?" his stepmother's voice cut in, sharp yet pleading.
"It's been months already… move on. Your mother is alrea—"
"You don't get to speak about my mother."
The words came out sharp, Razan's jaw tight as he scoffed without looking at her.
His voice dripped with venom, each syllable carrying the weight of months of resentment.
"If it weren't for you—"
*Smack!
The sound cracked through the hall like a whip.
His father's hand connected hard with his face, sending his head snapping to the side.
Heat spread across his cheek, the skin already flushed red.
Razan blinked, breath caught, as the sting lingered.
He turned his head back slowly, his eyes narrowing, rage and disbelief boiling in silence.
His father stood in front of him, hand still raised, his expression filled with fury and authority.
"Enough," his father barked, his finger jabbing toward Razan as if he were scolding a child.
"Watch your tongue."
"Move on, boy. Your mother is dead. She's been dead for months, and nothing you do, nothing you say, is going to change that. So stop dragging her ghost around like a crutch."
He continued, his tone dripping with contempt as he stepped closer.
"You sit here sulking like the world owes you something. Pathetic. Do you think she'd be proud of this? Of you moping around, throwing punches in some rundown gym, acting like you're tough? She'd be ashamed. And I'm already ashamed enough for the both of us."
His finger jabbed toward Razan's chest.
"You want to blame someone? Blame yourself. You weren't there when it mattered. You couldn't save her, and now all you do is lash out like some spoiled brat. Grow up."
He folded his arms, his voice turning even colder.
"You're nothing but dead weight in this house. If you can't get your act together, then don't expect me to keep carrying you."
"Come on, let's go," his father said flatly, turning his back on Razan without another glance.
The butlers were already waiting outside, bowing slightly as they opened the car door.
His father and stepmother stepped in, the door closing shut behind them before the vehicle pulled away from the mansion's entrance.
Razan's fists clenched tight, his nails digging into his palms as he glared after them.
His teeth ground together before he finally muttered under his breath, his voice sharp and trembling with fury.
"You don't know Mother at all… you abusive asshole."
The words came out low, bitter, but filled with a venom that had been building for months.
He exhaled hard, a long sigh escaping as if trying to keep his rage from boiling over.
"No need to get all fumed up because of that shithead," he muttered, forcing himself to calm down.
He turned on his heel and walked toward his motorbike, each step heavy but purposeful.
Reaching the bike, he slipped his helmet on, adjusting it firmly before swinging one leg over the seat.
He settled in, shoulders stiff but steady. Sliding the key into the ignition, he twisted it sharply.
*Whrrr—Vrrm.
The engine came alive, its rumble breaking the silence of the mansion grounds.
"Gotta get my mind focused on that message," Razan said under his breath, eyes narrowing behind the helmet's visor.
"I need to prepare, just like it said."
*vrrrrrrrr!!!
The bike then roared forward, tires grinding against the pavement as he accelerated.
Without another look back at the mansion, Razan sped toward the gates.
They creaked open automatically, parting just enough for him to shoot through before slamming shut behind him.
.
.
.
Moments passed as the steady hum of his bike carried him across the city streets.
The roar of the engine echoed briefly between buildings before quieting as he slowed to a stop at the entrance of his university.
The familiar campus gates loomed ahead, students moving in groups or pairs, their chatter blending into the usual morning noise.
Several heads turned as Razan pulled in.
His bike, along with his presence, was hard to miss—he had always stood out, whether he liked it or not.
Some students glanced at him with recognition, others with quiet curiosity, whispering as he passed.
Razan parked near the designated slots, sliding the bike neatly into place before cutting the engine.
The silence that followed left him with only his thoughts.
"First things first," he muttered to himself, pulling his helmet off and tucking it under his arm.
His expression was sharp, focused, his mind already circling back to the words that haunted him from last night.
"I need a place to store my stuff," he continued quietly, eyes scanning the area as though weighing options.
His voice carried determination, laced with the edge of caution.
"Somewhere I can stash my gear… out of sight."
He paused, exhaling through his nose, before a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"And I know just who to ask."