Chapter 18

Tariq Al-Farsi stood in the narrow corridor of Mustashfa Al-Sha'ab, his phone pressed to his ear. The scent of disinfectant and old dust filled the air. "Send me some money for Layla's breakfast," he said into the receiver. "I'll Venmo it to you right now, sir," Karim replied. The notification chimed seconds later. Tariq tucked the phone away and stepped out onto Shari' Al-Afa'i. The street was a chaotic sprawl of vendors and morning traffic. He navigated the crowded sidewalk until he found a small stall steaming with the scent of ginger and broth. He bought a container of chicken noodle soup, the plastic bag warm against his palm as he hurried back to the clinic. Inside the quiet room, Layla lay on the narrow cot. Bandages covered much of her face and arms, leaving only her eyes visible. She was staring listlessly at the cracked ceiling, her gaze vacant and hollow. "Darling," Tariq said softly. He set the soup down on the rickety bedside table, the steam curling into the air. Layla didn't blink. She didn't turn her head. Her body remained rigid, as if any movement might invite further pain. Tariq reached out and took her hand, his fingers gently brushing over her knuckles. "It's all over now," he whispered. At the sound of his voice, Layla's eyes finally flickered. A sudden tremor ran through her, and she turned her head toward him. Tears began to well up, spilling over the edges of the gauze. "I've offended Zayd Sharif," she sobbed, her voice a weak, panicked rasp. "I'm a dead woman, Tariq. You have to leave me. Just go, before they find you too." Tariq leaned closer, his expression steady and calm. "It's alright, Layla. Zayd's dead. And your family is okay. They're safe." Layla's sobbing cut off abruptly. She stared at him, her eyes widening with disbelief. "Dead? But he's a general... how can he be dead?" "The news reported a man in a black Qina' al-Ashbah killed him," Tariq explained, his voice factual and devoid of emotion. "The police are hunting the murderer now. The Western Border soldiers are gone." Layla's brow furrowed. A fragmented memory surfaced—a tall figure, the cold gleam of a ghost mask in the moonlight. She remembered the roar of a man's voice before the world had turned black. She hadn't seen him clearly, but the image of the mask haunted the edges of her mind. "Is he... truly dead?" she asked, her voice falling into a trance-like state. "That's right," Tariq confirmed. He opened the soup container and stirred it gently. "He can't hurt you anymore. Come on, have some soup." He slid an arm behind her shoulders, scooping her up so she could sit against the pillows. He blew on a spoonful of broth and held it to her lips. Layla swallowed it mechanically, the warmth slowly colorizing her pale complexion, though her eyes remained shadowed by the trauma. The days that followed were a cycle of terror and exhaustion. Layla remained on edge, her sleep plagued by nightmares. Frequently, she would wake up screaming, her hands clawing at the air as she begged Zayd to let her go. Tariq stayed by her side through every episode, holding her until the tremors subsided. He realized she was on the brink of a total mental breakdown; he vowed then that he would be the one to heal her, no matter the cost. While the rest of Al-Waha buzzed with the news of the Sharifs' downfall and the mysterious assassin in the ghost mask, Tariq ignored it all. He didn't care about the power vacuum or the police investigations. His world was confined to the four walls of the clinic room. Over the course of three days, the frantic episodes began to thin. Layla slowly recovered her voice and began to open up to him again, the light returning to her eyes in small, fragile increments. Though the physical injuries still required time, the paralyzing fear had begun to recede. "Tariq Al-Farsi," Layla said softly on the morning of the fourth day. She looked toward the window, her voice steady. "I want to go home. Mom and Dad might be worried." Tariq nodded, a sense of relief washing over him. "I'll take you back." He called Karim, who arrived shortly after in a black sedan. They helped Layla into the back seat, and the car pulled away from the messy street of Shari' Al-Afa'i, heading toward the Ghazi Villa. As the familiar gates of her family home came into view, Layla gripped Tariq's hand, her breathing hitching in anticipation of the reunion. ════════════════════════════════════════