Chapter 16

Shari' Al-Afa'i sat in the dense heart of Al-Waha, a labyrinth of crumbling facades and tangled power lines where the city's underworld sought refuge. Karim navigated the jeep through the mess of the street, pulling up to Mustashfa Al-Sha'ab. It was a modest clinic, tucked away from the prying eyes of the central districts. Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and old dust. Tariq Al-Farsi moved with practiced precision, his hands steady despite the storm raging in his chest. Over the years, he had taught Karim the fundamentals of trauma care, but tonight, the master took the lead. He placed Layla on the mini operating table. Under the harsh glow of the surgical lamp, the extent of the brutality was laid bare. Tariq's eyes tracked the deep lacerations on her face where the skin had been shredded, then moved down to her knees, which were raw and bloody from being forced across the floor. Each mark was a testament to Zayd Sharif's cruelty. Tariq stood frozen for a moment. He was the man who was supposed to be her shield, the one his grandfather had entrusted with the family's legacy, yet he had arrived too late to spare her this. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek before he wiped it away with the back of his glove. "The Sharifs," Tariq whispered, his voice vibrating with a lethal, low frequency. "Every single one of them will pay for this. I will pull their world down stone by stone." He reached for the saline and cotton, beginning the delicate process of debriding the wounds. As the damp cloth touched the jagged edges of the cuts on her face, Layla's body jolted. Her eyes remained shut, but a thin, broken cry escaped her lips. She began to curl into a fetal position, her hands clawing at the air as if trying to ward off invisible blows. "No... please..." she whimpered, her voice a ghost of the woman who had been Al-Waha's prettiest chairwoman only hours before. The sound felt like a blade twisting in Tariq's heart. He paused, his breath hitching as he fought the urge to break down beside her. He forced his focus back to the medicine. He reached for a tray and prepared a syringe, drawing a clear liquid into the barrel. "It's okay, Layla. I'm here," he murmured, though she couldn't hear him through the fog of her trauma. He found a vein and depressed the plunger. Within seconds, the sedative and analgesic began to take hold. The tension bled out of Layla's limbs. Her breathing slowed, and the frantic twitching of her fingers subsided into a heavy, drug-induced rest. Tariq worked in silence for the next hour. He cleaned every scrape, applied specialized ointments to the deep cuts on her face to minimize scarring, and wrapped her knees in clean, white gauze. Karim slipped back into the room, his dark skin shadowed by the dim hallway lights. He took one look at Tariq's expression—the cold, focused mask of a killer turned healer—and decided not to speak. He simply nodded and retreated to the front of the clinic. Gently, Tariq scooped Layla's light frame into his arms. He carried her through the back door of the clinic to a small, private house shielded by a high wall. He laid her on the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin. He didn't leave. He pulled a chair to the bedside and took her hand, his thumb tracing the back of her knuckles. Outside, Karim stood guard at the entrance, his eyes scanning the dark mouth of Shari' Al-Afa'i. The rest of Al-Waha was in chaos. News of Zayd Sharif's death and the slaughter at the hotel had sent shockwaves through the city's elite. Police sirens wailed in the distance, and investigators swarmed the Sharif estate, but the narrow alleys of the serpent street remained silent. Tariq watched the rise and fall of Layla's chest as the night deepened, his grip on her hand never loosening. ════════════════════════════════════════