Ayman reached the familiar hangout spot, a quiet, tucked-away corner near an old café where the trio often gathered. The faint buzz of crickets filled the air, mingling with the occasional burst of laughter from a distant table. His friends, Sami and Hamza, were already there, a couple of bottles cracked open and a third waiting for him.
"Ah, finally!" Hamza exclaimed, raising his drink. "We thought the Cemetery ghosts got you for real this time!"
Ayman chuckled faintly and sat down, taking a swig of his drink.
"You won't believe the night I had," he started.
"Try us," Sami said, leaning back in his chair, his smirk lit by the warm glow of a streetlight.
Ayman told them everything—the eerie encounter with Mourad, the mysterious money, and then the old man in white at the Cemetery, his cold eyes and cryptic words lingering in his mind like a shadow.
By the time he finished, Hamza was nearly doubled over, laughing.
"A ghost gave you money?" he guffawed. "Oh, man, I'm going to the Cemetery tomorrow. Maybe I'll find a rich ghost handing out cash!"
Sami grinned. "No, no, Hamza, you'd scare the ghosts off before they even had the chance."
The group erupted in laughter, the tension in Ayman's chest loosening just a little.
"Seriously, though," Hamza said, catching his breath. "What if Mourad and this old man are connected? Maybe you're being set up, bro."
Ayman frowned, swirling his drink. "I don't know. It's like... everything's a puzzle, and I'm missing the pieces."
"Or," Sammy said with a dramatic flourish, "you've stumbled into a movie plot. Soon, you'll be running from secret agents and deciphering ancient prophecies!"
The humor lifted the mood again, but Ayman couldn't shake the undercurrent of unease. His friends kept joking, tossing theories around, from ghosts to mafia schemes, but Ayman stayed quiet, his thoughts elsewhere.
As the night wore on, the conversation shifted to lighter topics—old memories, neighborhood gossip, and future plans. Yet, in the back of his mind, Ayman couldn't help but replay the cryptic words of the old man and wonder if Hamza's joke might hold a grain of truth.
The night deepened, and the warmth of alcohol softened the edges of Ayman's nerves. Still, the questions swirling in his mind refused to settle. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, staring at Sami.
"Hey," Ayman began, his tone casual but probing. "You ever hear stories about mysterious men in black? You know, like in Conan, the detective anime—the shady, evil types who appear and disappear, like shadows in real life?"
Sami raised an eyebrow. "What? Like fiction? Men in black, disappearing into thin air? Nah, bro, that's just TV stuff."
Hamza smirked, nudging Ayman with his elbow. "Oh no, Ayman's been watching too many movies. Next, you'll tell us you've been recruited by some secret agency or started seeing aliens. What's going on with you, man?"
Ayman forced a chuckle, but his fingers tightened around his glass. "No, it's just... I've seen some strange things lately. Maybe my mind's just playing tricks on me."
"Probably," Sami said, taking a sip of his drink. "Or maybe you need to get more sleep. That cemetery visit clearly messed you up."
Ayman exhaled, shaking his head, but the thoughts lingered. He decided to change the subject slightly, easing into something more grounded. "Do you remember Hitman? The game we used to play years ago on your old computer?"
Sami brightened. "Oh yeah, I do! I played it a lot. That game was tough as hell at first, but once you got the hang of it, it was a masterpiece. Why?"
Ayman hesitated, his eyes darting between them. "There were agents, real government agents, at the police station a few days ago. They were asking me about that game."
Both Sami and Hamza stared at him, confused.
Hamza laughed first. "What? Are you serious? They're asking about Hitman the game? What, are they afraid gamers will become real-life assassins now?"
Sami frowned, leaning closer. "That's... strange, though. Did they say why?"
"No," Ayman replied, his voice low. "But they mentioned something about Hitmen in real life. Do you think that's a thing? Hitmen actually exist?"
Hamza shrugged. "I mean, probably, but not here. This is Tunisia, bro. No one's hiring professional killers here. Maybe in the States or Europe, but not here. We don't even have easy access to guns."
Sami nodded in agreement. "True. But if Hitmen do exist, I guess the government would be looking for them. Maybe they're worried about someone dangerous."
Ayman pressed his lips together, feeling the weight of their words. He decided to take it one step further. "What about a name? Black Or Dark Caesar?"
Sami's face twisted in thought. "Black Or Dark Caesar? Nah, I never heard of any of these. I know Julius Caesar, though. The Roman leader."
Hamza laughed again. "What, are we talking about ancient history now?"
Sami ignored him, continuing. "You know, Caesar became a nickname for a lot of people over the centuries. Leaders, powerful men, stuff like that. Maybe it's a nickname for someone—a Hitman, even."
Ayman nodded slowly, his mind racing. "Yeah... maybe."
For the rest of the night, the conversation drifted back to lighter topics, but Ayman's thoughts stayed locked on the mysterious pieces of the puzzle—Mourad, the agents, the cryptic words of the old man, and now, this elusive figure called Black Caesar. As much as he wanted to dismiss it all as coincidence or paranoia, the feeling in his gut told him otherwise.
The bottles on the table clinked as they were set down, the group sinking deeper into their evening routine. Laughter and banter filled the air, but Sami suddenly broke the rhythm, his tone turning somber.
"You know," Sami began, staring into his glass, "I hope Nadir's brother finds him soon. I saw on Facebook that Nadir hasn't shown up in Italy yet. His brother posted that he's still waiting in Lampedusa, or maybe somewhere else." Sami hesitated, his brows furrowing. "I just hope nothing bad's happened. You know how it is out there... so many don't make it across."
Hamza shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh. "Yeah, man, I've been thinking about that too. Nadir's my friend. I really hope he's okay."
Ayman sat quietly, his fingers tracing the edge of his glass. He knew the truth, or at least he thought he did. Nadir wasn't coming back. His fate was sealed long before his brother's Facebook posts. But Ayman couldn't bring himself to say it. Not now, not here.
Trying to lift the mood, Hamza leaned back and smirked. "Ayman do you remember that time with Nadir, though? When I hit that cop with an egg and ran for our lives?"
Ayman laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, man! We were so dumb. Thought we were invincible or something."
"And your brother knew about it," Hamza said, his smile fading slightly. "He knew I was the one who did it, but he never said anything to the cops. That's just who he was—always looking out for people."
Sami looked at Hamza, his curiosity piqued. "Really? He didn't turn you in?"
"No," Hamza said, his voice growing quieter. "There was another time, too. Me and a friend... we stole a kid's computer from the train station. Thought we'd pulled off the perfect crime." He chuckled bitterly. "But Karim found out. He saw the footage and knew it was me. He came to my house and told me to give it back. Said the kid was a student, trying to get by. And then he promised he wouldn't tell anyone—not about the computer, not about the egg, nothing."
Hamza's voice cracked as he spoke, his eyes shining with tears. "That's why I respected Karim. He didn't have to help me, but he did. He was... he was a real man. The kind of person we all looked up to."
Ayman's chest tightened at Hamza's words. He stared at the table, the weight of his brother's absence pressing down on him.
"Yeah," Ayman said finally, his voice barely audible. "He was."
For a moment, the group fell silent, the gravity of the conversation pulling them together in shared loss. The only sounds were the faint clinking of bottles and the distant hum of the city at night.
As the conversation meandered through various topics, Ayman finally spoke up, his tone turning thoughtful. "You know, when I was in the police station, those agents—they weren't even speaking French. It was something else. Strange, you know?"
Sami leaned forward, intrigued. "What do you mean? What language were they speaking?"
"I don't know," Ayman replied, shrugging. "Maybe English? But who the hell comes to Tunisia and speaks English in a police station? That's not normal."
Hamza raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Wait, wait. English? Are you saying they were FBI agents or something? The Americans? What did you get yourself into, bro?"
Sami chuckled. "FBI in Tunisia? That's a new one."
Hamza smirked, leaning back in his seat. "Oh, I know why they came. They're looking for oil at your house!"
Ayman blinked, confused. "Oil? What oil? We don't even have that much oil at my home."
Hamza burst out laughing. "No, no, not olive oil, bro. Petrol! You know, the meme."
Sami caught on and started laughing too. "Yeah, the meme! The Americans come for oil, right?"
Ayman rolled his eyes but couldn't help laughing along. "Oh, yeah, yeah. I remember now. Damn, you guys are dumb."
The laughter settled, and Ayman's voice turned serious again. "But for real, though. I don't know why they were asking me anything. I mean, they could've asked Sami here. He's the smart one; he'd probably give them all the answers they want."
Sami waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, man. I'm not that smart. I just like to read and know stuff."
Hamza grinned, pointing at Sami. "Exactly. That's why you're the perfect snitch. They'd love you."
"Shut up," Sami retorted, throwing a crumpled piece of paper at Hamza as the group erupted into laughter again.
After they finish the drinks everyone is left. The cool night air brushed against his face, the crispness offering a sharp contrast to the warmth of the moments he had with his friends. Ayman breathed it in deeply, letting the coolness wash over him. The weight of the past few days, the rejections, the uncertainty, seemed to dissipate with each step he took away from the bar. For the first time, he felt like he could breathe again, even if just for tonight.
He walked slowly, his footsteps steady but unhurried. The familiar sounds of the city—the distant hum of traffic, the soft rustle of leaves in the wind—felt strangely comforting. There was a lightness in the way he moved, an unfamiliar sense of hope, almost as if he could see beyond the darkness that had clouded his vision for so long. It wasn't much, but it was something.
As he walked home, Ayman couldn't help but let his mind wander, fleeting thoughts of possibility fluttering through his head. Maybe things weren't as hopeless as they seemed. Maybe, just maybe, good days were ahead of him. The thought clung to him, fragile yet persistent, like a sliver of light in the darkness.
The weight of his responsibilities, his family's struggles, and the pressure of being the one who had to fix it all still lingered in the back of his mind, but it didn't feel as suffocating as before. Tonight, he let himself believe that a way out might exist. That thing could turn around, that he could turn things around. It wasn't the kind of hope that would last forever, but in this moment, it was enough.