A Chance To Rise

Chapter 12, The Rich Fool.

Zaid kept a safe distance as Ayman reached an abandoned lot near the edge of the district. The air smelled of concrete and cigarette smoke. A lone streetlight flickered overhead, casting long shadows.

A man stepped out from behind a rusted shipping container, tall, with a scar running down his cheek. His cold eyes scanned the area before settling on Ayman.

"Abo Marzoq," Ayman said, his voice uncharacteristically tense.

The man, Abo Marzoq, nodded. They spoke in hushed tones, their words swallowed by the distant hum of traffic. Zaid strained to listen, but all he caught were fragments, something about "next shipment" and "no mistakes this time."

Then, Ayman reached into his bag and handed over the thick envelope. Abo Marzoq weighed it in his hand before tucking it inside his jacket. Without another word, he turned and vanished into the maze of alleyways.

Ayman exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the ground. Then, as if shaking off the tension, he straightened his uniform and walked back toward the school dorms.

Zaid waited, heart pounding, until Ayman was completely out of sight. Only then did he move, slipping away in the opposite direction. His mind raced.

Ayman wasn’t just a rich, arrogant bully. He was involved in something dangerous. And now, Zaid had proof.

Back in his dorm room, he locked the door and replayed the recording on his phone. The footage was shaky, but it was clear, Ayman handing over that envelope, Abo Marzoq’s hardened face.

___

The dining hall buzzed with chatter as Zaid and Bassam sat at their usual table, the one they’d been unofficially assigned to since the White Cards group "adopted" them. Not that they were friends, but by now, it had become routine. The rich boys barely acknowledged them, they were like little pets to them that had to follow them around simply because Fares insisted they do. And in return, Zaid and Bassam got to enjoy the lavish meals they could never afford on their own.

Zaid picked at a slice of roasted duck glazed in pomegranate sauce, his mind elsewhere. Across the table, Hussam and Fares argued over some new luxury watch, while Karam scrolled through his phone, disinterested.

Bassam nudged him. "You’ve been quiet. Still thinking about art class?"

Zaid shook his head. "No, just..." His eyes flicked to Ayman’s empty seat. "Where’s His Highness today?"

Karam glanced up, shrugging. "Who knows? Probably busy explaining to a poor girl very gently why he can't be with her." He rolled his eyes. "Or just skipping to avoid cafeteria food, like he needs an excuse."

The others laughed, but Zaid’s stomach tightened. After yesterday, Ayman’s absence felt ominous. Was he meeting Abo Marzoq again? Handling more of that mysterious money?

He wanted to ask more, Did he leave school? Has he been acting weird? but he bit his tongue. If he showed too much interest, they’d get suspicious. And the last thing he needed was the White Cards group questioning why Zaid, of all people, suddenly cared about Ayman’s whereabouts.

So he stayed quiet, forcing a laugh at one of Hussam's jokes while his mind raced.

After classes ended, Zaid watched as the White Cards boys piled into Fares’s chauffeured car, heading off to some high-end café. Ayman wasn’t with them. Which was Perfect.

Zaid waited until the dorm halls were empty before slipping toward Ayman’s room. He needed answers, what was that money for? Who was Abo Marzoq? And most importantly, was there more to uncover?

He pressed his ear against Ayman’s door. Silence.

Then, a muffled voice, Ayman was inside. And he wasn’t alone.

Zaid’s fingers hovered over his phone’s recorder. it was time to listen.

Zaid pressed his ear closer to the door, straining to hear. Ayman’s voice was loud, animated, he was clearly on a video call.

"I'm so glad I could help!" Ayman was saying, his tone dripping with self-satisfaction.

A girl's voice, sweet and polished, replied, "Seriously, Ayman, you’re a lifesaver. My driver, Abo Marzoq, gave me the money you sent. I finally got that new phone, the old one was completely wrecked."

Zaid’s eyebrows shot up. Driver? That scarred, shady man from the alley was just a driver? He felt Something was wrong.

Ayman chuckled. "No problem at all! I know how important it is to have the latest tech."

"Ugh, tell me about it," the girl sighed dramatically. "It’s so embarrassing, I’m just as rich as you, but my parents are going through a ‘temporary financial adjustment.’" She said it like it was some ridiculous inconvenience. "They cut me off ‘to teach me responsibility’ or whatever. But don’t worry, I’ll pay you back as soon as they sort this out."

Zaid nearly choked. She’s lying. It was so obvious. No rich girl would need a random guy from another school to bail her out, she’d have friends, credit cards, something. But Ayman didn’t question it.

Instead, he puffed up like a proud peacock. "Don’t even stress about it! My parents give me so much money, I don’t even know what to do with it all. I drop, like, 500 Dinars a day on arcade games and tips."

Zaid’s jaw tightened. i***t. Absolute, world-class i***t.

The girl cooed, "Wow, that’s insane! You’re, like, the most generous person I know."

Ayman laughed, eating up the praise. "I mean, what’s money for if you can’t help people, right?"

Zaid had heard enough. He stepped back from the door, disgusted. Ayman wasn’t some criminal mastermind, he was just a spoiled, gullible fool getting scammed by some girl who saw an easy target.

Part of him almost pitied him, almost.

But then he remembered his mother’s pale face in the hospital bed, the beeping machines, the bills piling up.

Ayman could afford to be stupid. Zaid couldn’t afford to care.

He walked away, phone in hand, the recording saved.

The system wanted Ayman’s secret? Well, here it was: the richest boy in school was also the dumbest.

Now, all Zaid had to do was decide, how much was that information worth?