The wind carried the scent of earth and faint decay as Ayman stood frozen in front of the grave, Mourad's words echoing in his mind. Every memory, every voice from his past, began to flood his thoughts.
His brother's gentle advice. His mother's tearful prayers. Nadir's jokes about a better future. Farid's sneering challenge to change his life. It all churned together, overlapping and intertwining, creating a chaotic symphony in his mind. He gritted his teeth, his head aching from the storm of emotions.
Ayman's gaze drifted to the grave, Karim's name etched firmly into the stone. Suddenly, he saw a figure behind the grave—a faint, flickering presence. His breath hitched as the figure took shape. It was Karim, his brother, but not as he remembered. His face was burned and scarred, his eyes hollow yet filled with sadness.
Karim stood motionless, his expression heavy with regret as he stared at Ayman. It was as if he was silently asking, Why didn't you save me? Why are you still trapped here, like I was?
"No," Ayman whispered, shaking his head. His lips trembled, and his eyes burned with unshed tears. "No, brother... no."
Mourad tilted his head, frowning. "What?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence.
Ayman ignored him, his eyes fixed on the apparition. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, each beat like a hammer blow. "Brother," he whispered again, his voice cracking.
He blinked, and the vision was gone. Karim was no longer behind the grave, leaving Ayman staring at nothing but cold, indifferent stone. He clenched his fists, his body trembling.
Then he saw something else.
Turning back to the grave, he saw himself. But this version of himself wasn't the Ayman he knew. This version stood tall, wearing a sharp suit identical to Mourad's, with an aura of confidence and power that Ayman had never felt. The other Ayman looked at him with a faint smile, nodding slowly, almost approvingly.
"Do it," the vision mouthed, his head tilting slightly as if encouraging him. "Do it."
Ayman's knees nearly buckled. His breathing became shallow, and his pulse quickened. He shook his head, trying to shake away the vision, but it remained. It was him, yet it wasn't him. It was everything he feared and everything he wanted to become.
He felt tears spilling down his cheeks, the weight of his indecision pressing harder on his chest. The ghostly figure of Karim, the vision of himself, Mourad's words—it was all too much.
His lips trembled as he tried to speak, but no words came out. His tears fell freely now, wetting the ground beneath him. The world around him felt distant, muffled like he was trapped in a bubble, alone with his torment.
Finally, he looked at Mourad, his face streaked with tears. "What do you want from me?" he croaked, his voice raw with pain and confusion.
Mourad studied him, his expression unreadable. "I already told you," he said simply. "I want you to choose."
Ayman turned back to the grave, but this time, there was nothing—no vision, no phantom, just silence. He closed his eyes, his tears still falling, and let out a shaky breath. The weight of the decision loomed over him, heavier than ever.
Ayman stood silently before Karim's grave, the weight of his choice pressing heavily on his chest. His hands trembled as he stared at the charred remains of the money Mourad had burned. The faint, acrid smell of smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the damp earth of the cemetery. His brother's grave seemed to radiate an invisible pull, as though begging him to stay, to reconsider.
Something deep inside him had already shattered, an irreparable fracture in his soul. With trembling hands, he struck the lighter and held it to the edge of the crisp, clean pack of 1,000 dinars. The flames licked hungrily at the notes, curling their pristine edges into ash. He stared, unblinking, as the fire consumed the money, its warmth contrasting with the cold emptiness gnawing at his chest.
For a moment, he stood frozen, the flickering light of the fire reflected in his tear-filled eyes. Then, with a guttural cry, he hurled the smoldering remains onto his brother's grave. The ashes scattered against the headstone, mingling with the dirt and the silence of the night.
It wasn't an act of defiance or a bid for forgiveness—it was a surrender, an admission that no amount of money could ever fill the void left by his brother's absence. The fire burned out quickly, leaving behind only smoke and the faint smell of charred paper, as he sank to his knees, the weight of his grief finally dragging him down.
His voice, low and hoarse, broke the silence.
"Wait," he said, his tone carrying a darkness that surprised even him. "I'm coming."
Mourad, already walking away, paused. He turned back, looked at the burning money, and a knowing smile creeping across his face. "Good," he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. "You've made the right choice. Come on."
Mourad began walking again, not looking back, confident that Ayman would follow.
Ayman hesitated for one last moment, his eyes returning to Karim's grave. The burnt money lay scattered before it, ashes curling and fluttering in the breeze. He crouched down, picking up a fragment of the still-warm paper. It crumbled in his fingers.
"I'm sorry, brother," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
With a deep breath, he let the ashes fall from his hand and rose. His steps were slow but deliberate as he moved toward Mourad.
Mourad, noticing Ayman catching up, chuckled lightly. "You won't regret this," he said confidently. "You'll be respected like your brother was. And rich, like me. Isn't that the best of both worlds?"
Ayman didn't respond. He glanced back one final time. In his mind's eye, he could see his brother standing by the grave, his face now clear, no longer burned, but filled with sorrow.
As Mourad led him out of the cemetery, the camera-like description pans to the grave, where the last wisp of smoke from the burned money rises into the sky, fading into the darkness.
The sunlight shimmered faintly on the black paint of Mourad's sleek Ford Mustang. Ayman's eyes widened as he took in the polished chrome, the low growl of the engine, and the aura of wealth the car radiated. It felt completely out of place in the decaying streets of his neighborhood.
"Get in," Mourad said, opening the passenger door with a smirk.
Ayman hesitated for a brief moment, his gaze flickering back toward the cemetery. But he shoved his doubt aside and slid into the seat. The leather interior was cold and smooth beneath his touch. He glanced around at the dashboard, the bright LED displays, and the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air.
"Nice ride," Ayman muttered, his voice subdued.
Mourad chuckled, starting the engine. "This? Just a tool, my friend. You'll learn soon enough that tools like this make people listen. Respect you, even fear you. That's the world we live in."
As they drove through the streets, Ayman stared out the window. The familiar sights of his impoverished neighborhood blurred past him. Cracked walls, flickering neon signs, and hunched figures gathered around barrels of fire. It all seemed to drift away into another world as the car sped on.
Mourad kept talking. "You see, Ayman, there are two paths in this life. The path of respect, like your brother's. He earned it with his morality, but look where that got him—six feet under, broke and forgotten." He glanced at Ayman, letting the words sink in.
"And then there's the path of wealth," Mourad continued, his voice smooth as silk. "Farid took that road. No respect, no friends, but plenty of power and money. Yet, he's a man no one loves. And he may end up in jail or worse."
Ayman clenched his fists. "And what's this third path you mentioned?"
Mourad smirked. "The third path," he said, his voice dropping, "is rare. It's for those who are willing to abandon everything—morality, innocence, even parts of themselves. It's the path where you can have both respect and wealth. But it comes at a price."
Ayman stared at him, suspicion creeping into his voice. "What price?"
Mourad's smile widened, but he didn't answer. Instead, he turned the car sharply, veering off the main road.
The Mustang climbed the winding path of a nearby mountain. The streetlights grew sparse, replaced by the faint glow of the sun casting long shadows.
Mourad parked at a secluded viewpoint overlooking the city. "Come," he said, stepping out of the car.
Ayman followed, shivering slightly as the mountain breeze bit into his skin. Mourad stood by the edge of the viewpoint, the city sprawled out beneath them.
"This," Mourad said, gesturing to the view, "is what you can have. Power. Freedom. The world at your feet." He turned to Ayman, his gaze piercing. "But only if you're willing to take the third path."
Ayman hesitated the weight of Mourad's words settling on him. "What's the job, Mourad? What do you want from me?"
Mourad smiled, his face half-lit by the city lights. "Patience," he said. "You'll find out soon enough. But first, you need to decide—are you ready to leave everything behind?"
The air on the mountain grew colder, the silence only broken by the faint rustling of leaves and the occasional distant hum of the city below. Ayman stood on the edge of the cliff, the vast cityscape sprawled out beneath him. The view was breathtaking, but the weight of Mourad's words pressed heavily on his mind.
Mourad leaned casually against the Mustang, his sharp suit catching the sunlight. His face carried the same sly smile, but his eyes were dark, unreadable. "You asked about the third path," he began, his voice calm yet laced with an eerie undertone. "The price of walking it is simple—your morality. You leave it behind."
Ayman frowned, his brows knitting together. "What does that even mean? How do you leave morality behind?"
Mourad chuckled softly, stepping closer to the edge and gesturing toward the expanse below. "Life, Ayman, is fragile. No matter how much you fight, and how hard you try, it ends. We're all just a heartbeat away from the abyss."
He turned back to Ayman, his face a mask of calmness. "I could push you right now," he said, his voice casual as if discussing the weather. "And you'd disappear into the void. No one would ever find you. Your life, everything you've been through, every struggle, every memory—it would just… vanish."
Ayman took an involuntary step back, his chest tightening. Mourad's smile widened a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
"But why would I do that?" Mourad continued, his tone shifting to one of reassurance. "You're of no value to me dead. No one put a price on your head." He paused, letting the words hang in the cold air. "That's the thing, Ayman. Life, no matter how precious it may seem, can be reduced to a price. Some people pay for survival, others pay to see life end. My job is simple—I end them when a price is set."
Ayman stared at him, his mind racing. "Wait a sec. You mean you… kill people? For money?"
Mourad nodded, his smile never faltering. "Precisely. But not just anyone. I don't kill for pleasure, revenge, or some twisted sense of power. No. I only act when someone decides a life is worth a certain amount and hires me to take it."
Ayman's stomach churned, and he took another step back. "That's insane," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mourad laughed, the sound echoing across the mountain. "It's business, Ayman. Nothing personal. Do you think the world operates on fairness, on kindness? No. It's all about value. People like me—like us—exist in the shadows, making sure the system runs smoothly."
"I don't understand," Ayman said, his voice trembling.
Mourad gestured to the edge of the cliff again. "Look around you. This world doesn't care about morals. Morality is a luxury for the weak. If you want wealth and respect, you let go of it. You do what needs to be done, no questions asked."
He took a step closer to Ayman, lowering his voice. "You're at a crossroads, Ayman. You've seen what poverty gives you. You've seen what staying moral gets you. Your brother had respect but died broke and helpless. I'm offering you something different. A path where you can have both respect and money. But it requires strength—the strength to see the world as it is, not as you wish it to be."
Ayman's hands balled into fists, his chest heaving. "And what about you?" he asked, his voice filled with a mixture of anger and fear. "What's your real job? What do you call yourself?"
Mourad grinned, leaning back against the car. "Officially? I'm a real estate agent," he said, his laugh deep and guttural. "But unofficially… I'm the man people come to when they want problems to disappear."
The cold wind carried his words, leaving Ayman standing in stunned silence. Mourad clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "You don't need to decide everything now," he said. "But you'll understand soon enough. For now, let's get moving. The night is young, and your initiation is waiting."
Mourad walked back to the car, leaving Ayman staring at the edge of the cliff, his mind reeling. His brother's words flew faintly in his ears, but they were drowned out by Mourad's chilling promises of wealth, power, and respect. With a deep breath, Ayman turned away from the abyss and followed Mourad into the unknown.
Ayman climbed into the car, his hands still shaking as he tried to make sense of everything Mourad had just said. The weight of the decision hung heavily in his chest, suffocating him with its gravity. Mourad followed him but paused for a few seconds at the car's door.
He turned, casting one last look at the mountain behind them, a solemn expression crossing his face. He whispered just loud enough for Ayman to hear, "You did the right thing, Ayman. Otherwise, you would be..."
Learning the truth of Mourad sent a chill down Ayman's spine. He couldn't tell if Mourad was comforting him or simply acknowledging the path he was about to take. Mourad climbed into the car and slammed the door shut. He started the engine, the low growl of the sports car breaking the silence, and pulled away.
"You'll understand in time," Mourad said as they drove through the winding roads, his voice steady, almost comforting. "You need to think about it, take some time, and let it settle in your mind. It's a lot to digest all at once."
Ayman glanced at Mourad, the darkness of the car's interior a mirror to the conflict in his own mind. "Is this… like the game Hitman?" he asked, unsure whether the question sounded naive or desperate.
Mourad's lips curled into a faint smile. "Yes, it's a little like that. But there's one big difference." He glanced at Ayman, his expression hardening. "This is real life. The people you kill— they're real. If you make a mistake, if you get caught… you're dead. There's no respawn. There are no second chances."
Then Mourad looked to Ayman as he said "And don't worry no need to shave your hair."
Ayman swallowed hard, the realization of the weight of his decision pressing even heavier on him. "It's life or death. Every choice matters."
Mourad nodded, his voice cold and unwavering as he looked to the road again. "Exactly. You have to think before you act. It's all about planning. You make a mistake, you pay for it with your life."
The silence between them thickened as the car sped through the quiet streets. Mourad broke the tension, his tone lightening for a moment. "But don't worry. Take this time to clear your head. Think about everything, but don't overthink it. I'll give you some space, in a few days. Let it settle. When you're ready, we'll talk again."
He took a sharp turn, heading toward the city's district. "But one thing, Ayman—don't tell anyone about this. Not a single person. This stays between us. You'll need time to adjust, but no one can know about the choices you're making. Not yet. Trust me."
Ayman nodded, his mind racing, barely processing Mourad's words. "For now, let's go and have a drink," Mourad said with a casual smile.