unknown fate

Chapter Six, Episode Three

Scene 1

Imam lay sprawled on his bed, still in his clothes, his shoes stubbornly clinging to his feet. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his face, as though sleep had chased him down before he could resist.

The door creaked open. Asrar stepped inside, her eyes narrowing with a hint of surprise. She spoke softly, almost incredulously:

Asrar: “What’s wrong, Imam? You look so lost in thought.”

Imam, his gaze distant, replied with a hollow tone:

“Nothing… just thinking about work.”

Asrar frowned, a trace of gentle reproach in her voice:

“Work? What kind of work makes you drift off like this—lying here, still wearing your shoes?”

She walked closer, her movements tender, and bent down. Carefully, she slipped the shoes from his feet, as though afraid of disturbing him. Imam’s eyes fluttered shut, surrendering at last to the pull of sleep.

For a moment, Asrar remained by his side, watching him. Then, leaning closer, she whispered his name with fragile insistence:

“Imam… Imam…”

But he did not stir. His breathing grew steady, deep. He was lost to her, cocooned in dreams.

With a quiet sigh, Asrar straightened. She walked to the edge of the room, flicked off the light, opened the door with care, and slipped outside, leaving the silence to envelop him.

Scene Two

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A new morning crept into the room, faint beams of sunlight slipping through and scattering across the furniture, exposing the heavy silence.

Asrar stood beside the bed, leaning slightly over Imam’s motionless body. Her trembling hand reached gently toward his chest, as if searching for his heartbeat. She whispered his name softly—tender, yet tinged with unease:

Asrar: “Imam… Imam.”

His eyelids fluttered slowly before he opened his eyes, gaze clouded and dazed, as though he had just clawed his way out of a long nightmare.

Asrar forced a fragile smile, speaking in a cautious, caring tone:

“Good morning… I found you exhausted, so I didn’t wake you. You’ve been asleep for two whole days.”

Imam froze, suddenly lifting his head. His voice trembled with disbelief:

“Two days? I’ve been asleep for two days? How?!”

He shifted, dragging himself upright to the edge of the bed. His body was heavy, his features drawn tight with tension. His hand groped for the packet of cigarettes by his side; he lit one and inhaled deeply. Smoke curled upward in a gray veil as his eyes locked on the floor, lost in a whirlwind of thought.

Asrar lingered silently beside him, watching the strange cast of his face, a look she had never seen before. Abruptly, Imam raised his head toward her, his voice carrying an unexpected note of gratitude—layered with something darker, harder to name:

“Thank you… Asrar.”

Her lips parted but no words came. Bewilderment filled her eyes. After a pause, she turned slowly toward the door, opened it quietly, and slipped out—leaving behind a room heavy with unanswered questions… and an invisible wall of mystery rising higher between them.

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Scene Three

The smoke from Imam’s cigarette thickened the air of the room, swirling in tangled circles as if betraying the turmoil inside his chest. He exhaled heavily, then rose slowly from his bed, still clad in his sleepwear, and moved toward the table. With a firm press of his finger, he crushed the cigarette into the ashtray with a muffled hiss—like the last gasp of a strangled cry.

His footsteps echoed faintly on the floor as he approached the door. He opened it quietly, stepped into the hallway, still weighed down by the remnants of sleep, yet driven by something far heavier than fatigue. Descending the staircase to the first floor, the faint squeak of his slippers marked each step.

At the bottom, his gaze drifted toward the living room, where Johar, Tethkar, and Asrar sat gathered in tense silence. Their eyes whispered to each other more than their lips did, while he stood watching them for a few seconds without uttering a single word. His presence was more like a shadow than a man. Then, without warning, he turned away and walked directly toward the study.

He pushed the door open, slipped inside, and shut it behind him, sealing himself off from the world. The room was still, drenched in silence. His eyes immediately fell on a flash drive lying purposefully on the desk, as though it had been placed there for him alone. He sat down, opened his laptop, inserted the drive, and began to read.

The files were filled with coded words, cryptic instructions, and scattered names—secrets buried in digital ink. His lips moved silently as he read, his face taut, each sentence tightening the coil of tension around him. Then, without warning, images of weapons appeared on the screen: rifles, pistols, explosives—all annotated with meticulous notes on their usage.

His eyes narrowed sharply. He closed the file in haste, as though to look any longer would scorch him. Opening a digital map on the internet, he zoomed in slowly until the dividing line between Egypt and Palestine filled the screen. His mouse hovered there for a moment before his hand fell away.

Leaning back in his chair, he fixed his eyes on the border. It was no longer just a line on the screen—it was a gateway, a threshold to an unknown fate lying in wait for him… and for everyone around him.