The plane touched down just before dawn.
Layla hadn't used her real passport. She'd entered Aldarrah on forged documents with the name Maya Hafez, a humanitarian researcher with a fake NGO and a real enough grant to pass border security.
The immigration officer didn't ask questions.
That was the first red flag.
She stepped into the terminal, suitcase in hand, scarf wrapped tight around her hair. The air smelled like scorched sand and stale coffee. The capital hadn't changed — not its broken sidewalks, not its billboard lies, not even the smell of its fear.
She hailed a cab with no license plates.
Driver didn't speak. Just nodded and drove.
Everything was quiet in Aldarrah. Too quiet.
Like the entire country had been gagged.
Layla checked into a low-rent hotel near the southern edge of the city. The room was cracked, dim, and smelled of mold—but it had no cameras, no eyes, and no curious front desk manager. That made it perfect.
She locked the door, pulled the curtains tight, and slid the envelope back out.
The coordinates pointed to a warehouse near the old industrial zone. The time was in ten hours.
Too long to wait. Too short to run.
She pulled out her brother's old leather notebook. It was full of scribbled contacts, burner SIM numbers, names that had since disappeared off the grid. She found one she hadn't dialed in years.
Fadi Marwan.
Former field producer. Smuggler of facts. Dangerous optimist.
She hesitated, then called.
Two rings.
"Who the hell is this?" His voice was sharp, suspicious.
"It's Layla."
A long pause. Then a sigh.
"I told you never to call me again."
"Jamal's dead."
Silence.
"And my brother's missing."
More silence.
"Where are you?"
"Back in the capital."
"You're insane."
"I need your help."
Another pause. A softer one this time.
"I'll text you an address. Come alone. And Layla?"
"Yes?"
"Don't trust anyone. Especially not the ones you used to."
At 3:13 PM, she met him in an abandoned café by the river.
Fadi had aged. His eyes were harder now, and he carried a limp she didn't remember. But his mind was sharp, and his first words were a knife:
"You know your return is a death sentence, right?"
"Maybe," she replied, "but if I don't speak now, I become exactly what they want: irrelevant."
He poured her bitter coffee in a cracked glass.
"Your brother was investigating something before he vanished," he said. "He didn't tell me much. But it had to do with something inside the Ministry of Interior. Something about a new kind of censorship."
Layla frowned. "More than firewalls and blacklists?"
Fadi nodded grimly.
"They're not just censoring stories anymore, Layla. They're rewriting memory. Digitally. Permanently. Wiping timelines, planting fake photos, deepfake audio, erasing birth records, marriage certificates—entire identities."
She felt a chill creep into her spine.
"That's not censorship," she whispered.
"No," he said, lighting a cigarette.
"It's digital assassination."
That night, Layla approached the warehouse alone.
The air was dry, the sky starless.
She slipped through the gate, heartbeat hammering. Each step sounded louder than the last. Inside the warehouse, metal shelves cast long shadows. Rats scattered. And somewhere in the dark, a phone buzzed.
She followed the sound.
And found a table.
On it: a burner phone. Still ringing.
She picked it up.
"Layla Rami," a voice said.
It wasn't a question. It was a confirmation.
"I'm told you're ready to remember."
A pause. Then:
"The Republic is not what it used to be.
The question is — are you?"
The call ended.
Behind her, a light flicked on.
And someone stepped out from the shadows.
Layla didn't move.
She didn't run.
Not yet.