A heavy silence stretched for a moment between the words, then Malik's voice cut through—sharp as a ripping cloth:
— **Malik:** "But no one will believe that a dog grabbed a gun, shot them, and then died afterward, drinking their blood... your fate will be hanging by the rope."
The men stood lined up before him, heads bowed, eyes scouring the floor as if an answer might be hidden there. The dark in the corners of the room seemed to stir and whisper, and suddenly the minister’s black shoe—the very one Malik wore—appeared before them, a small proof of the authority standing behind him.
The "minister" rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, his voice higher now, each word carrying a hidden command: — "Awatif and Rania, go up to your rooms now."
Rania and Awatif rose sluggishly; thei
