The neon glow of the call center still haunted his eyes. He sat in his apartment, the television muted, his fingers drumming on the table. The phone in his hand felt heavier than ever.
He called his parents again. No answer. He scrolled through his contacts. His ex-wife.
He hesitated, then pressed the button.
"Soufiane?" Her voice was sharp, guarded.
"How is Younes?" he asked quickly, almost desperately.
"He's fine. He's sleeping," she said after a pause. "But don't you dare think of coming here. The airports, the borders… everything is closed. Just stay in Casablanca. Promise me."
Her voice wavered. It was the first time he had ever heard her sound afraid. The line cut before he could reply, leaving him in silence.
A knock rattled his door—urgent, frantic.
Soufiane grabbed the fishing knife he kept near the counter. Once, it had been a tool for cutting bait. Tonight, it was the only weapon he had.
He opened the door a crack.
"Soufiane!" It was Anas, his cousin, sweat dripping down his forehead. Behind him stood Nabil, eyes darting nervously, and Zak, pale and trembling.
"What are you doing here?" Soufiane whispered.
Anas shoved inside, closing the door quickly. "The streets aren't safe. We saw them—people changing, attacking, biting. It's spreading too fast."
Zak's hands shook. "We need to get out. The city isn't going to hold."
Nabil paced like a caged animal. "Leave? Where? Every road is blocked. If we want to survive, we need to take what we need—food, weapons, anything. Forget rules. Forget neighbors. It's survival now."
Their voices clashed in the small apartment, fear turning into argument.
Soufiane gripped the knife tighter. His parents were unreachable. His son was far away in the Netherlands. His sister and her children were across the sea in Germany.
And now, even among his cousins, unity was already cracking.
He looked at Anas, Zak, and Nabil—the strategist, the fearful, the reckless—and he knew one truth:
The night had only just begun.
And Casablanca was already falling into darkness.