On a mild spring morning, the rustling of leaves could be heard as the sweet fragrance of cherry blossoms drifted through the air.
The voices of students echoed across the school grounds as they prepared to welcome the beginning of a new school year. Some were excited, while others cursed their fate.
"A new school year already... Time really shows no mercy. At least I'll get to see my friends again."
"Damn it, this is bullying! Somebody call the Human Rights Organization! Child Protection Services! Anyone! Just extend this cursed vacation already!"
Meanwhile, there were still those who remained in bed, completely unconcerned.
"Haziqa! Get up! You're late for school!" his mother shouted angrily.
"Schoo...? Just five more minutes, Mom..." the boy replied half-asleep, one eye closed while the other barely remained open.
Smack!
A few moments later, the young man was on his way to school with the unmistakable handprint of a slap decorating his right cheek.
A mother's slap was one of the deadliest weapons in the Arab world, rivaled only by the legendary flying slipper. Neither could be dodged, nor defended against. Mothers regarded any attempt to resist these sacred techniques as an open challenge to their authority, a threat to the stability of the household itself—one punishable by the immediate suspension of several basic human rights.
The young man had silver hair and black eyes. He was tall among the short, yet short among the tall.
His face was filled with annoyance as he slowly made his way toward school. Although he could still make it to class if he hurried, he deliberately dragged his feet, almost as if he were searching for an excuse to skip school because of being late.
"Damn... What an inspiring way to start the day." He clicked his tongue in frustration.
As he walked, he noticed two people ahead of him moving at the exact same sluggish pace.
Their cheeks were just as red as his.
Apparently, they had also been slapped by their mothers.
And, almost simultaneously, they muttered the very same words.
They were his two closest friends.
The first was Al-Sakratah, a tall and skinny young man with long black hair tied into a ponytail and pitch-black eyes.
The second was Al-'Arandas, whose crimson hair matched his crimson eyes. He was slightly shorter than Al-Sakratah, yet still considered tall. His bulging muscles and intimidating face made him look like someone nobody wanted to provoke.
Just as Haziqa was about to greet them—
"Hey, gu—"
His vision suddenly blurred.
"Wha... what the he—?"
Haziqa died.
The doctor's report declared the cause of death to be sudden cardiac arrest.
And that was exactly what ordinary people believed.
But in the final fraction of a second before his death...
The real cause was something entirely different.
In truth, the incident wasn't nearly as complicated as you might imagine, dear reader.
To understand what really happened...
Let's rewind the story and watch it from another perspective.