A Chance To Rise

Chapter 11, Suspicious Meeting

The next day, Zaid sat in art class, his mind still heavy with thoughts of his mother and the task looming over him. Across the table, Bassam was carefully layering watercolors onto his paper, creating a breathtaking landscape, rolling green hills, a soft sunset bleeding into a lavender sky, and delicate strokes suggesting a distant forest.

The art teacher.paused behind Bassam’s chair, her eyes widening. "This is exceptional, Bassam," he said, genuine admiration in his voice. "The way you blend the colors, it’s almost lifelike."

Bassam grinned "It’s all about the layers," he explained, turning to Zaid. "You start with light washes, let them dry, then build up the shadows. Watercolor is patience, you know?"

Zaid nodded, pretending to understand. "Yeah, layers. Got it."

The teacher moved to Zaid’s side, peering down at his half-finished sketch, a clumsy attempt at a tree, the lines shaky, the shading uneven. His lips pursed.

"Zaid," he said gently, though his tone carried a hint of disappointment, "your work is… simple. Like something a child would draw."

A few nearby students snickered. Bassam shot them a glare before giving Zaid an apologetic look.

Zaid’s grip tightened on his pencil. He wanted to argue, to say he had more important things on his mind than perfecting stupid watercolor techniques. But he just forced a shrug. "Guess I’m not an artist."

The teacher sighed. "Art isn’t just talent, Zaid. It’s effort. Maybe if you paid attention instead of daydreaming…"

Zaid clenched his jaw, staring at his pathetic drawing. It didn’t matter. None of this did. Not when his mother was lying in a hospital bed, not when he had a target to spy on just to keep her alive.

But as the laughter around him faded into the background, one thought burned in his mind:

I have bigger things to worry about than this.

___

Zaid stormed out of the art room, his face still burning from the art teacher criticism. He just wanted to be alone, to think, but then he spotted him.

Ayman was leaning against his locker, phone pressed to his ear, grinning like the world revolved around him.

Don’t do it, Zaid told himself. Walk away.

But his legs moved on their own, carrying him forward, slow and silent, until he was close enough to hear.

Ayman let out a loud, obnoxious laugh. "Yeah, bro, what can I say, girls can't resist me. I swear, if our school wasn’t boys-only, I’d have a different girl falling for me every week and I'd have to break their hearts." He paused, smirking. "But don’t worry, I’d never actually do it. I promised my mom I’d be a good boy." He said it in a mocking, singsong voice, as if the idea of respecting his mother was some hilarious joke.

Standing beside him, Ali rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Alhamdulliah it’s an all-boys school," he muttered. "Otherwise, girls would have to suffer through your cringe and your ego."

Ayman laughed again, he said to whoever he was speaking to on the phone. "Whatever, man. You’re just jealous because you couldn’t pull off my charm even if you tried."

Zaid’s fists clenched. Every word made his skin crawl. This was the guy he had to spy on? Some arrogant jerk who bragged about manipulating girls and mocked the idea of being decent?

But then he remembered his mother, her weak grip on his hand, the hospital machines beeping in the background.

He had no choice.

Swallowing his disgust, Zaid slipped his phone out of his pocket, thumb hovering over the record button.

Just do this for a while. Get the money. And save her.

Ayman’s voice carried down the hall, loud and grating. "Honestly, if I wanted to, I could make a girl fall for me in, like, five minutes. But where’s the fun in that? Breaking hearts is too easy."

Ali groaned. "You’re unbearable."

Zaid hit record.

Zaid kept his distance as Ayman left the school grounds, his usual confident walk replaced with nervous glances. Something was wrong.

Ayman slipped into a narrow alley between two shops, looking around cautiously before leaning against the brick wall. Zaid hid behind a parked car, his heart pounding.

Peeking around the corner, he saw Ayman open his expensive backpack and pull out a thick envelope. He flipped through the contents, bundles of cash, more money than Zaid had ever seen. Even for someone as wealthy as Ayman, this was unusual.

Where did he get all that?

Ayman stuffed the money back into his bag and grabbed his phone, dialing quickly. "Yeah, it's me," he whispered. "I have it. All of it. Meet me now, same spot as before." He paused, then snapped, "No, I'm not waiting. This has to happen today."

Zaid froze. This wasn't just Ayman being obnoxious, this was something serious. Something hidden.

The system's task echoed in his mind: Uncover his secret.

Ayman hung up and hurried out of the alley, heading toward the busy streets. Zaid hesitated only a moment before following, his phone still recording.

Whatever Ayman was mixed up in, it was bigger than stupid jokes. And

if exposing it meant saving his mother, Zaid would do whatever it took.