They ran together, ducking into a shattered storefront. Soufiane barricaded the door with a broken shelf while Amal collapsed onto the dusty floor, still gripping her pipe.
For a while, neither spoke. The weight of the moment pressed on them—the relief of reunion, the horror of reality. Finally, Amal broke the silence.
"You… you made it out?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"I was lucky," Soufiane said, settling beside her. "The city fell too fast. I tried to find my parents, my son… but everything is burning."
Amal's gaze softened. "Your boy. Younes, right? I remember you showed me once… the tattoo on your arm."
Soufiane glanced down at his forearm, where the inked portrait of his son stared back at him. The lines were worn but clear, etched in flesh long before the world had ended. His throat tightened.
"He's the reason I can't stop," Soufiane murmured. "No matter what happens here, I have to reach him."
Amal shifted closer, sitting at his side. Her presence felt the same as it had in the office—grounding, human, a reminder that he wasn't just another broken man drifting through the noise. Back then, she had kept his spirit alive when the nights were heavy with despair. Now, her nearness lit a spark of hope in the ruins of Casablanca.
"And you?" Soufiane asked softly.
Amal's jaw tightened. "I lost my brother on the first day. I don't know if anyone else in my family is alive." Her voice cracked. "But I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet."
They sat in silence, broken only by the distant crackle of fire and the ocean's endless murmur.
Soufiane finally leaned forward. "I found a boat. It's hidden near the pier. It's not much, but it could get us out. To somewhere safer. Europe, maybe."
Amal looked at him, eyes glistening. "If you go, I go with you. Alone, I won't make it."
Soufiane nodded. He had found not just an ally, but the one person who had already once helped him survive his own darkness.
Outside, the infected howled into the night. But for the first time, Soufiane didn't feel completely alone.