The closet was a coffin of shadows—cramped, breathless, suffocating. Winter jackets pressed against Ababeel's face like fabric grave markers, and somewhere between her, a suspicious thief, and the threat of immediate death, she began compiling an internal list of complaints. It was getting… impressively long.
Beside her, Habeel hovered stiffly, as if terrified his breathing alone might give them away.
Why does she wear such strong shampoo? He panicked silently. If anyone smells fruit salad, we're dead—
Ababeel jabbed an elbow into his ribs.
He swallowed the yelp that nearly escaped.
Then—
Boots stopped directly outside her apartment door.
BANG!
The collision shook the walls. Ababeel felt her soul sprint toward the afterlife. Habeel went rigid, muscles snapping, tense like drawn wires.
The front door exploded open. Heavy footsteps flooded into the living room—confident, merciless, methodical.
A voice sliced through the air, sharp and commanding:
"Clear every unit. Leave nothing unchecked."
Another answered, "This one looks empty, sir."
In the darkness, Ababeel and Habeel whipped their heads toward each other, communicating in frantic eyebrow Morse code.
Her eyebrows: I TOLD YOU MY HOUSE LOOKS EMPTY.
His eyebrows: SORRY FOR NOT HAVING A DEGREE IN INTERIOR DESIGN.
The soldiers' boots stalked through the apartment—thud, thud, thud—living room, bedroom, kitchen, back again.
Each step felt like it landed squarely on Ababeel's lungs.
Then—
A scream tore through the hallway.
High-pitched. Terrified.
A child.
Ababeel's heart plummeted."That's… my neighbour's daughter," she mouthed, barely shaping the words.
Habeel nodded once, jaw clenched tight.
They leaned closer to the closet door, breath trembling against the wood.
Outside, someone was shoved. Hard.
A woman's voice—heneighbouror—pleading through terror:
"Please—please stop! My child—she's scared—let us go—"
A soldier barked, impatient and icy, "Who lives in this apartment?"
The woman froze. The silence felt like a knife suspended midair.
"She's lying," Habeel murmured.
Ababeel shot him a lethal glare—not helping—but then the woman spoke:
"No one. The owners… they left the country. The house has been empty for weeks."
Boots shifted. Someone grunted.
Another soldier muttered, "The Place looks abandoned anyway."
The little girl began sobbing harder, her tiny breaths cracking under fear.
Ababeel's throat clenched painfully.
Habeel, thief or not, softened—just barely, like a fracture in his usual bravado.
He whispered, "She's trying to protect you."
She didn't trust him.
But that?
She believed.
The soldiers moved again—equipment clinking, boots turning, orders quietly exchanged.
Then slowly…
Slowly…
Their footsteps retreated down the stairwell. Descending floor by floor.Fading.Gone.
Silence dragged itself back into the apartment—heavy, exhausted, trembling.
Ababeel let out the breath she'd held for what felt like nineteen long, traumatic years.
In the darkness, Habeel whispered:
"…Can I remove my hand now, or are you planning to bite me?"
Her eyes narrowed like a feral cat's.
"Oh, I'm DEFINITELY planning to bite you."
"O-okay, noted—releasing carefully—please don't kill me—"
He peeled his hand away from her mouth.
Cool air rushed back into her lungs.
But now they sat trapped—two strangers pressed together in a dark closet, listening to the fading sobs of a child outside and the distant echoes of danger climbing the building.
The weight of it—whatever it was—settled over them.
Something dangerous was unfolding. Something bigger than her bat.Something bigger than his excuses.Something that didn't care if they were innocent or guilty, thief or host, stranger or neighbour.
Ababeel's voice shook as she whispered:
"…What do we do now?"
Habeel swallowed, his silhouette barely visible in the pitch black.
"For starters…" he breathed, "we stay very, very quiet."