"The real Alarm"
1031 Words
A few days passed.
The tension in the Abdul mansion did not disappear - it only went quiet.
Late afternoon sunlight poured into Mrs.
Quadri's living room, reflecting off the glass center table. She sat elegantly on the large cream sofa, her phone pressed to her ear, her voice warm but measured.
"My sister, Shukro," Mrs. Quadri said softly, "it has been ages since you visited my house."
On the other end, Mrs. Abdul exhaled.
"Yes, I know. I Will try. I've been... stressed lately."
Mrs. Quadri let out a light laugh.
"Stressed? About what? Everybody close to you knows you don't like stress. You give stress
- you don't receive it."
Mrs. Abdul didn't laugh.
"It's about Ismail."
There was a slight pause.
"And the girl he followed online. Something is going on between them. I can feel it."
Mrs. Quadri adjusted her sitting position, now fully attentive.
"What kind of something?"
"I don't even know," Mrs. Abdul admitted, irritation slipping into her tone. "But she is just a random person. No background. No known family name. Nothing."
"Ah," Mrs. Quadri muttered. "That cannot be.
Ismail cannot settle for an ordinary girl."
Mrs. Abdul's voice grew sharper.
"One dirty thing from a poor background cannot be my son's girlfriend. I cannot even imagine it. These girls nowadays... they see money and they attach themselves."
She scoffed lightly.
"She is probably looking for someone to fund her lifestyle."
Mrs. Quadri frowned slightly.
"Who is the girl?"
"That's the problem," Mrs. Abdul replied. "I don't even know who she is. I don't know her parents. I don't know her position. I don't even know how she truly look."
Her fingers tapped lightly on her armrest.
"And that is what worries me."
At that exact moment, footsteps echoed from the hallway.
"Mom, I'm home."
Mrs. Quadri turned immediately, her face brightening.
"Mubarak!"
She stood up to hug him warmly.
"I had no idea you went out. I went to your room and couldn't find you."
He smiled slightly, returning the hug.
"I had something to settle," he said calmly. His eyes flicked briefly toward the phone in her hand. "You're on a call?"
"Yes," she replied. "I'm speaking with my younger sister, Shukro - Ismail's mother."
Mubarak's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened just slightly.
"Oh," he said smoothly. "You can continue. I'll sit here."
He dropped into the armchair nearby, relaxed on the outside... attentive on the inside.
Mrs. Quadri returned to the call.
"It's been ages since you saw Mubarak," she said lightly. "He's back in the country."
On the other end, Mrs. Abdul respondeo
HICK
"He is back? For good?"
"For now," Mrs. Quadri replied. "But he may travel again soon."
There was a small pause.
"You were saying about the girl?" Mrs. Quadri prompted.
Mrs. Abdul sighed.
"Let her just be. She looks like the type that gives headache."
Mrs. Quadri nodded in agreement.
"That's true. Don't allow her to stress you. And besides, there's that political gathering next weekend. High-class people. Influential minds.
Your attention should be there."
Mrs. Abdul's mood lifted instantly.
"My sister, you know I will definitely attend.
When is it?"
They began discussing details - guest lists, influential names, potential alliances. Their tones shifted from emotional frustration to strategic excitement.
Mubarak sat quietly.
Listening.
Observing.
Processing.
After a few more minutes, the sisters ended the call.
Mrs. Quadri placed her phone down and looked at her son.
Mubarak leaned forward slightly.
"Mom... is everything okay?"
"Yes, everything is fine," she replied, smoothing her scarf. "Shukro is just stressed about the girl Ismail followed. Apparently, something may be going on between them."
Mubarak's gaze lowered briefly.
"And she's worried?" he asked casually.
"She is afraid the girl might ruin her plans," Mrs. Quadri explained. "She says the girl is just an ordinary person. She doesn't know much about her background. And you know your aunt... she plans everything."
Mubarak nodded slowly.
"They will be fine, mom," he said calmly.
But his mind was far from calm.
He stood up.
"I'll be in my room."
As he walked upstairs, his expression shifted.
Ordinary girl.
Random.
Unknown background.
He had heard enough.
And something about the way his aunt spoke...
And he smirk while climbing the stress.
Then pulled out his phone.
And walk to his room
Mubarak closed his bedroom door drop his phone and turned the lock with a soft, deliberate click. Silence filled the room.
Perfect.
He moved to the corner where the locked desk sat, untouched by anyone but him. From his pocket, he pulled a small silver key. He slid it into the lock and turned it. Click.
Inside lay a black box. He lifted it, opened it, and revealed an old phone.
He sat at the edge of his bed. Fingers hovering over the screen for a moment, savoring the anticipation.
Power on. Password in. The screen lit up, familiar yet dangerous.
Old messages. Conversations he thought erased.
Secrets he'd buried. Names. Dates. Plans.
Promises.
Lies.
A slow, cold smile curved his lips.
"Thought all this was gone." he whispered, almost to himself.
He scrolled. Eyes sharp. Fingers tapping the screen.
Anger rose quietly, controlled, like a coiled spring.
Each word, each memory, reminded him of what people thought they could hide. How fragile control really was.
A notification. Unread. Recent. He opened it.
And his smile faded. Just for a heartbeat. Then returned. Sharper. Harder.
Now the fun begins, he thought.
He imagined the chaos these old threads could unleash if they ever saw the light. And he liked it.
Liked that tension. Liked knowing he could pull it, twist it, destroy it - or let it burn slowly.
His breathing was steady. Calm. But the corners of his mind buzzed, calculating, anticipating.
He set the phone down. Powered it off. Slid it back into the black box. Locked the drawer.
Key back in his pocket.
He leaned back on the bed, eyes dark, still smiling faintly. Calm. Polished. Untouchable.
But underneath, something cold, sharp, alive - a spark only he could teel.
The past had surfaced.
And he was ready.
The real alarm... had just begun.
- Writer
