The dimly lit presidential office was thick with tension as General Maddah stood rigidly before the imposing desk of The President. The once-proud general now bore the weight of failure on his shoulders.
The President's fingers drummed slowly against the polished wood before he leaned forward, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You had one task, General. Two men—two revolutionaries—and you couldn't find them. You turned the city upside down, and still, nothing."
Maddah swallowed hard but kept his gaze fixed ahead. "We searched every possible hideout, sir. They've either gone underground or—"
"Or you were incompetent!" The president slammed his fist down, making the general flinch. "Enough excuses. The operation is over. You're relieved of command."
Maddah's jaw tightened, but he said nothing as the president snatched a pen and scribbled on a document. "Consider yourself demoted to Colonel. Now get out of my sight."
As Maddah—now Colonel Maddah—saluted stiffly and turned to leave, the door opened, and a lean, sharp-eyed man in a pristine uniform stepped inside. His smirk was as cold as his reputation.
"Ah, General Ghanim," the president said, his tone shifting. "Just the man I need."
Ghanim inclined his head slightly. "Mr. President. I've been briefed on the situation. A shame brute force didn't yield results… but then again, not all prey responds to the same trap."
The president raised an eyebrow. "You have a better idea?"*
Ghanim's smile widened. "Indeed. Announcements and soldiers kicking down doors only make the rats burrow deeper. But if we knock as friends…" He paused, savoring the thought. "We announce a new national health initiative. Government workers will visit every household to assess living conditions, family size—all under the guise of welfare. No one refuses free healthcare. And while we're inside… we look for our missing revolutionaries."
The president leaned back, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Clever. Very clever. You'll take charge of this operation immediately."
Ghanim bowed his head. "It will be my pleasure."
As the dismissed Maddah stepped into the hall, the door closed behind him, sealing his failure—and the beginning of a far more insidious hunt.
Abo Bilal stood over a worn-out map spread across a makeshift table in the dimly lit safehouse. His men gathered around, their faces tense but determined. The air was thick with urgency—Ameer and Ma'mon were still missing, and the government was closing in.
"They've given up on the tunnels," Abo Bilal muttered, tracing a finger along a marked route. "But they know two of ours are still above ground. We need to find them before the regime does."
One of his lieutenants, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, grunted. "The streets are crawling with informants. How do we move without getting spotted?"
Abo Bilal's eyes flicked toward Vivi, who was adjusting the press badge around her neck. "That's where our journalist comes in."
Vivi smirked, tapping her notepad. "Ask the right questions, and people tell you everything. Especially if they think you're just writing a story."
Reem, standing beside her with a stack of legal files, nodded. "And if anyone gets suspicious, I'll remind them of their rights—loudly."
Jawad, a broad-shouldered fighter with a permanent scowl, cracked his knuckles. "And if that doesn't work?"
Ramzi, lean and quick, smirked. "Then we make sure Vivi and Reem walk away clean."
Bilal folded his arms. "Good. Vivi, you lead—ask about 'missing persons,' 'government crackdowns,' anything that might give us a lead. Reem, you're her shadow. Jawad, Ramzi—stay close, but out of sight unless things go bad."
Vivi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her expression turning serious. "And if we find them?"
Bilal's gaze darkened. "You we get them back here safe."
The team exchanged determined glances before moving out—Vivi and Reem blending into the bustling streets, Jawad and Ramzi melting into the crowd behind them. Above ground, the hunt was on. And this time, failure wasn't an option.
__
The bright studio lights shone down as Kelly sat across from the talk show host, a practiced smile on his face. The audience buzzed with excitement, eager to hear from the beloved singer. The host, a polished man in a sharp suit, leaned forward with a friendly grin.
"So, Kelly,"*the host began, "your fans adore you not just for your voice, but for your passion. Tell us, what do you enjoy doing when you're not performing?"
Kelly chuckled, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest. "Ah, simple things—walking through the old markets, drinking tea by the sea, writing songs under the stars. My heart is in the small moments."
The host nodded approvingly. "Speaking of songs—your latest single has been on everyone's lips. The lyrics are poetic, almost nostalgic. What inspired you to write it?"
Kelly's expression softened. "I wrote it in one night, when the city was quiet. It's about love—love for home, for the land, for the people who make it beautiful."
The host's smile turned knowing. "And as someone who loves his country so deeply… how have the recent events affected you? The attack on the presidential palace—what are your thoughts?"
The air in the studio grew heavy. The audience held their breath. Kelly's smile faded, but his gaze never wavered.
Instead of answering, he stood up smoothly, adjusting his jacket. The host blinked in surprise. "Kelly?"
Without a word, Kelly closed his eyes for a brief moment, then began to sing—his voice rich and unwavering, filling the studio with the very song they had just discussed.
" Goodbye my old friend,
I'll remember you when I see the sunrise.
I'll think about you when I fight on the other side.
The smell of my blood,
Has been washed away by the rain.
I refuse to fall, before I take them with me all.
I refuse to stop the fight,
Before I remove them out of our sight.
Goodbye my old friend,
Remember me in your dua.
Pray for my soul.
That I have finally answered shahada's call.
So promise me you won't forget me in your dua.
Pray for my soul to rest in peace.
Don't cry over my wounds, please.
I have completed my mission.
May Allah clear my vision.
I now accept merging with the soil of
my beloved land
I just wish I got to embrace it for the last time.
Write down the date of September 29.
My dear old friend.
Remember me in your dua.
I'm satisfied with my sacrifice,
In Heaven, Inshallah, everything will be nice.
Tell them all about the martyr
Who will forever be remembered,
Even though he's not an immortal.
Goodbye old friend, remember me in your dua.
Pray for my soul.
Tell them the story about when they will fall.
Don't hesitate, just write it and send
No matter how long all stories eventually come to an end."
The host opened his mouth to interrupt, then hesitated, realizing the defiance in the act. The audience watched in stunned silence as Kelly's melody carried the weight of an unspoken answer.
By the time he finished, the message was clear—some truths were not given in words, but in the heart of a song.
The host forced a laugh, clapping politely. "Well! I suppose… art speaks where words fail. Thank you, Kelly, for that… unique perspective."
Kelly simply nodded and sat back down, his silence louder than any statement could have been.