The first light of dawn barely touched the waves, casting a pale glow over the endless Atlantic. Soufiane stood at the bow, his robust frame silhouetted against the water. At 1m84, his presence was commanding, though not muscular—rather, it was the strength of someone tempered by both hardship and years of training. Born in Hay-Mohammadi, one of Casablanca's toughest neighborhoods, Soufiane had learned early that survival required more than courage. His adolescence spent in kickboxing and full contact fights had forged not just his body but a dark, intense character that radiated even now.
The tattoo on his right forearm caught the dim light: a small angel, etched carefully, with the name Younes beneath it. Every glance at it reminded him of his seven-year-old son in the Netherlands, the fragile light guiding him through the chaos.
Beside him, Amal adjusted the supplies, keeping a steady watch on Meriem. At 1m65, she was a bit round, yet athletic, her movements precise and alert. She was determined, her focus sharp despite the exhaustion that hung over them like a cloud. Meriem stayed close, clutching a small blanket around her shoulders, her eyes wide and alert.
"The coast is closer," Soufiane murmured, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. "But it's never safe out here."
Amal nodded, sensing the intensity emanating from him. "We'll survive. Together."
Soufiane flexed his forearm slightly, the angel tattoo glimmering faintly. It was more than ink; it was a promise, a guide through the dark waters, a symbol of everything he fought to protect. Despite the ocean's endless black, and the uncertainty ahead, he felt an unspoken resolve settle within him. Hay-Mohammadi had shaped him, the streets had taught him, and Younes' name anchored him.