The jinn and Malik seemed trapped by the church.
In that cramped room inside Dima's apartment—where the faint scent of a woman mingled with the smoke of old cigarettes—the night was heavy, shrouded in a stifling darkness, pierced only by a pale strand of light filtering through a tattered curtain.
Malik lay beside Dima, but his sleep was anything but peaceful. It was more like a battle, an internal war. His body writhed and tossed on the bed as if invisible flames were consuming his insides. Suddenly, he sat upright like a man jolted from a nightmare, clutching his chest, breathing heavily, his eyes wide open, searching for something that wasn't there.
Dima, half-drowsy, opened her eyes and gazed at him. She sat beside him, her voice trembling with concern: "What's wrong, my love?"
Mal
