The call center was a box of flickering lights and restless voices. Rows of desks lined up like a factory floor, each one occupied by tired men and women tethered to headsets. Soufiane Mouaaouia sat slouched in his chair, pressing the headset deeper into his ear as another customer from France barked at him about unpaid bills.
"Yes, I understand your frustration," he repeated in French, his tone flat, his fingers already typing the scripted solution into the Lyca Mobile database. The man cursed, the line clicked, and the complaint was over. Another ticket closed. Another life problem solved—or ignored.
Soufiane pulled off the headset, rubbing the bridge of his nose. At thirty-five years old, divorced, and living alone in a cramped apartment in Casablanca, he felt older than his years. His ex-wife had taken their seven-year-old son, Younes, to the Netherlands. He still saw the boy during short visits, but each time the distance between them seemed to grow wider.
Fishing was the only thing that kept him sane. Early mornings by the Atlantic, rod in hand, the sea stretching endlessly before him—it was the one place where the world didn't feel like a cage.
But tonight, the sea seemed far away. The neon lights of the call center buzzed overhead, and a strange tension filled the air. A co-worker coughed violently in the corner, and everyone shifted uneasily in their seats.
When his shift ended, Soufiane walked through the streets of Casablanca. The city, usually noisy even at midnight, felt… muted. The honks, the laughter from cafés, the vendors' shouts—all had thinned into uneasy silence.
At home, he switched on the television. A breaking news banner crawled across the screen. The anchor's face was pale, his voice trembling:
"Authorities urge all citizens to remain indoors. A viral outbreak has been reported in multiple neighborhoods. Symptoms include violent behavior, delirium, and—"
The screen cut to shaky footage of chaos: men and women attacking strangers in the streets, blood splattering onto white walls, soldiers firing uselessly into the night.
Soufiane leaned forward, heart hammering. His phone buzzed. It was his mother, Naima.
"Soufiane, stay home!" she cried, voice tight with fear. "Your father and I are safe for now, but the streets… they are dangerous. Don't come outside!"
Before he could answer, the line broke, replaced by static.
He tried to call her back. Nothing.
The power flickered. Somewhere outside, a scream pierced the night.
For the first time, Soufiane realized this wasn't just another crisis. This was something else—something that would rip apart everything he had ever known.
The world was ending, and it had begun in his city.