Tomorrow

Summer's voice (young, a fragile whisper in the dark): "Mom, why don't the other kids like me?"

Saba's voice (soft, a gentle murmur against the pillow): "Maybe they just don't know you well enough yet, my little moon."

1 May 2011. Night.

The nightlight cast a soft, buttery glow across the small bedroom, painting long shadows that danced like silent guardians. A young Summer, no more than seven, lay curled under a duvet covered in cartoon stars. Her mother, Saba, sat on the edge of the bed, one hand rhythmically stroking Summer’s hair, its brown strands fine as silk thread.

Summer (voice small and muffled by the pillow): "But I know them. I know Sarah likes to jump rope at break, and I know Mark is scared of the headmaster's dog."

Saba (sighing, a sound full of a love that couldn't fix everything): "Things aren't always as they seem, my darling. Sometimes… sometimes people have reasons hidden deep inside them that stop them from getting to know wonderful things. Even wonderful things like you."

The bedroom door creaked open, spilling a wedge of brighter hallway light into the room. Her father, Saher, stood silhouetted in the doorway, still wearing his crisp white doctor's coat, a stethoscope slung around his neck like a metallic scarf. The faint, clean scent of antiseptic and his sandalwood cologne drifted in with him.

Saher (voice a warm, low rumble): "Why is my little princess still awake? Plotting to take over the world requires a full night's sleep, you know."

He crossed the room, the floorboards whispering under his weight, and sat on the edge of the bed, making the mattress dip. He pulled them both into a hug, his coat cool against Summer’s cheek. He kissed Saba’s temple, then pressed a firm, loving kiss to Summer’s forehead.

Saba (leaning into his touch): "She's upset. The other children… they don't seem to want to play with her."

Saher laughed, a rich, genuine sound that seemed to make the room itself brighter. He looked down at Summer, his eyes—the same shade of warm brown as her own—crinkling at the corners.

Saher: "Nonsense. No one could ever not like this face. Impossible. Maybe they're just jealous of your spectacular hair. Or perhaps they’re simply shy, and don't know how to talk to someone as brilliant as you."

Summer (lifting her head, a flicker of hope in her eyes): "Really?"

Saher: "Of course. You haven't done anything wrong to them. You are perfect."
Summer (sitting up, clutching her stuffed rabbit): "So what should I do? To make them see?"

Saher adjusted his glasses, a thoughtful frown on his face. He tapped his chin dramatically.

Saher: "I have it! A universal language of friendship. Why not give them some of those amazing caramel sweets you and your mom baked this afternoon? The ones that taste like happiness."

Summer's face transformed, lit from within by a sudden, radiant hope. She bounced on the bed, making the springs squeak in protest.

Summer: "Really? You think so? Really?!"

Saher stood in one fluid motion and scooped her into his arms, lifting her high towards the ceiling so she giggled, her small hands pressing against the textured plaster.

Saher: "I know so! Resistance is futile against the culinary magic of my little princess!"

He held her tight, her laughter bubbling between them. Then he spun around, making her dress flutter, the room becoming a joyful blur of yellow light and dancing shadows.

Summer, laughing breathlessly: "Daddy, I'm gonna fall!"

Saher: "Never! Come on, let's fly a little! We’re untouchable up here!"

Saba (watching them, her smile tinged with a bittersweet love): "You two are so much alike. Stubborn. And full of heart."

Saher stopped spinning, slightly breathless, and looked at Saba—really looked at her. The way her short brown hair framed her face, the way her honey-brown eyes held the whole world in them.

Saher (a mischievous glint in his eye): "Summer, a question of vital importance. Has your mom ever tried flying?"

Saba raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a playful, challenging smile playing on her lips.

Summer, grinning wickedly: "Let her try, Daddy! Make her fly too!"

Saher set a giggling Summer down on the rumpled duvet.

Saba (holding up her hands in mock surrender): "No, Saher, don't you dare! I am a grounded, sensible woman!"

Saher: "Nonsense! Come here, my beautiful wife! Time to defy gravity!"

He made a grab for her. Saba shrieked with laughter and darted around the bed, a playful predator and prey.

Saher: "I'm going to catch you! My wings are faster!"

Saba, laughing as she ran: "No, you won't! Your wings are tired from a long day!"

Saher: "I'm taller than you! My reach is superior!"

Saba: "What does that have to do with anything?!"

As Saba dashed past the bed, Summer, seized by a sudden impulse of alliance, reached out and snagged her mother's wrist, pulling her off-balance and onto the soft mattress with a soft oomph.

Saba (fake-scowling): "You're ganging up on me? Treachery! My own flesh and blood!"

Saher didn't waste the opportunity. He pounced, wrapping them both in a huge, encompassing bear hug, his strong arms pulling them into a tight, laughing, squirming knot of love. Summer snuggled into the warm space between them, safe, cherished, complete.

Summer (her voice muffled by her father's coat): "I love you, Mom and Dad."

Summer's internal monologue (older, the memory now ash on her tongue): I still can't understand. I will never understand. How that man, that warmth, that safety… how it all curdled. How it ended with him betraying her in a cold mall corridor. The math of it never adds up.

The next morning. The schoolyard.

The sky was a flat, indifferent grey. A group of children stood in a rough circle on the damp tarmac, their breath misting in the chill air. In the center, Summer lay curled on the ground, the carefully wrapped packet of caramel sweets crushed and scattered around her like fallen leaves. A shiny black shoe connected with her ribs, not hard enough to break, but enough to steal her breath.

Summer, crying, tears cutting clean paths through the dirt on her cheeks: "Why are you doing this? I just wanted… I just wanted to give you sweets... to be friends..."

A boy, his face a mask of cold superiority, looked down at her. He wasn't angry. He was bored. And she was his entertainment. A smirk twisted his lips.

The Boy: "Because it's fun."

The word was a slap. It wasn't a reason. It was an absence of one.

November 2021. Present Day. The Rooftop.

The sun breached the horizon, a sliver of molten gold tearing open the seam between night and day. Summer sat on the gritty, sun-warmed concrete of her roof ledge, her knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She watched the dawn bleed color into the Cairo sky, the memory of that word—fun—echoing in the new silence.

Summer's internal monologue: Fun.

The memory seamlessly bled into Elaine's voice on the bus, slick and poisonous. 'Let out that primitive violence inside you. Satisfy those instincts.'

Summer (whispering to the waking city): "Internal instincts? What's fun about causing pain? Does everyone with money and power truly crave this hollow, ugly thing? What's the point? Does watching someone break really make you feel whole?"

Her fingers, moving with practiced automatism, pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in her pocket. The rasp of the flint wheel against the lighter was unnaturally loud in the morning quiet. The first drag was harsh, familiar, the smoke a ghost in the cool air.

Summer: "Ezis Empire." She said the name like a curse.

She exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate towards the minarets now catching the first light.
"Nothing's happened since that day on the bus. Radio silence."

Her gaze dropped from the sky to the neat, rectangular garden below, surrounding her two-story villa. The bougainvillea was a violent splash of magenta against the whitewashed walls.

Summer: "Did they forget? Get bored? At school, they just look through me now. Like I'm glass."
Her mind, never still, began to churn, plotting trajectories and probabilities.

Summer: "If they all come at once… a coordinated attack… I don't know what I'll do. There has to be more of them. A network."
She raised her left eyebrow, a skeptical tic, and took another long, contemplative drag.

Summer: "I need to talk to Saito and Antoine. Something’s off."

The sound of the kitchen window sliding open directly below her was followed by her mother's voice, shattering her reverie.

Summer (stubbing the cigarette out hastily on the ledge and scattering the evidence): "Just getting some air! Relaxing!"

Saba leaned out, her hands gripping the sill. She looked up, her face etched with a mother's gentle concern.

Saba: "Summer, habibti, it's time for breakfast. Come down before it gets cold."

Summer: "Okay. Be right there."

Saba: "Hayat and Sandra are coming with you to school. They just called. They’re meeting you at the gate."

Summer (a flicker of surprise): "I'll be right down, Mom."

Saba's smile was sudden and brilliant, transforming her weary features. It was a smile Summer hadn't seen in a long time. She studied it from her perch, her head cocked, a curious frown on her face.

Summer: "You seem… different. Happy. I haven't seen you look like that in a long time, Mom."

Saba (her voice softening, brimming with emotion): "You finally have friends, my little girl. Real ones. You're 17 now. I… I was so afraid you'd choose to always be alone." Saba put a hand to her chest, and in the clear morning light, Summer saw the glint of a single, perfect tear tracing a path down her mother's right cheek.

Summer (her voice barely a whisper): "Mom..."

Saba: "You've done well, Summer. You've done so well, my daughter. I am so proud of the person you are."

Summer's own tough exterior softened. She offered a small, genuine smile back.

Summer's internal monologue: It was a risk. Letting them in. But looking at her now… it seems it was the right choice. The only choice.

A warm, dry breeze snaked between the buildings, rustling the leaves of the palm tree in their garden and lifting the strands of hair from both their faces. For a moment, they just looked at each other, a silent, understanding passing between them, before Saba ducked back inside.

An hour later. Summer's Room.

The black walls of Summer's bedroom absorbed the light from the large computer monitor, making it seem like a lone portal into another world. Summer sat bathed in its cool glow, fingers steepled under her chin. The digital clock in the corner of the screen read 08:47.

Summer's internal monologue: Saito. Off the grid for two weeks. No messages. No cryptic status updates. This isn't his style. He’s a ghost, but he’s a predictable ghost.

An incoming call notification abruptly splashed across her screen—a pixelated cartoon beret identified the caller: Antoine. The discordant chirp of the ringtone sliced through the silence.

Summer: "Of course. The Frenchman operates on his own time zone. Probably just waking up."
She snatched her headset from the desk and slid it on, the padded ear cups sealing her in.

Antoine (voice booming through the headset, full of Gallic exuberance): "Bonjour! Ça va, Summer Eleven?"

Summer (deadpan): "Do you possess a basic understanding of global time zones? Or does the sun just revolve around Paris?"

Antoine's laugh was easy and unoffended. "Yes, but why be a slave to the clock? One should enjoy life and do what one wants when one wants to do it! La vie est trop courte!"

Summer raised her left eyebrow, a gesture he couldn't see but would undoubtedly sense.

Summer: "Whatever. Have you talked to Saito?"

The line crackled slightly. Antoine: "No. Rien. He hasn't shown up for weeks. He hasn't even sent a message to the server. But I remember… he said he had something to do. Back in his home country. He'd been talking about it in vague terms for, like, a year."

Summer (leaning forward, her voice tightening): "What's taking him so long? A simple 'check-in' takes five seconds."

Antoine: "Do not worry! It is Saito! He is probably dismantling a corrupt corporation from the inside for fun. He is definitely fine."

Summer: "I don't know. My gut says something's wrong. This feels different."

Antoine: "Like what? What does your famous gut say?"

Summer: "Did he ever actually tell you where 'home' is? Specifically?"

Antoine: "No. Non. None of us ever did. It was the rule, no? All I know is he is Japanese. His IPs were always a maze of proxies. Why?"

Summer: "Do you have his phone number? A real one?"

Antoine: "Yeah, I have a number. But it just rings and rings. No answer. No voicemail."

Summer: "Give it to me. Now."

A second later, a text notification popped up with a string of Japanese numbers.

Antoine: "Summer, now you give me your number. Your real, current, Egyptian number."

Summer: "Why? So you can send me croissant emojis at 3 a.m. your time?"

Antoine: "So I can reach you if something happens. If he doesn't come back. We are a team, non?"

Summer (sighing, defeated): "Fine. Don't abuse it." She typed it out and hit send.

Antoine: "You forgot the country code, you amateur."

Summer: "It's +20."

There was a beat of silence, then a low chuckle from Antoine. "So. You are in Egypt, then. Land of pharaohs and pyramids."

Summer's eyes narrowed. She could almost see his smug grin.

Summer: "Did you just socially engineer me into giving up my location?"

Antoine: "Mais oui! It seemed like a good opportunity. You are usually much more careful. You are worried about him. It made you sloppy."

Summer: "Are you Jewish or something?" The question was a blunt instrument, designed to throw him off balance.

Antoine (bursting out laughing): "Of course I am not Peter! What a stereotype! I am, in fact, a great admirer of Allah and the Prophet. I find the architecture of mosques to be sublime."

Summer couldn't help it; a short, sharp laugh escaped her. She shook her head at the screen.

Summer: "That's racist. And weird."

Antoine: "But it makes you laugh. It always does. I have a spreadsheet."

Summer's tone grew serious again, the brief mirth vanishing. "Antoine."

Antoine: "What is it? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?"

Summer (picking at a loose thread on her black jeans): "Do you know… the real meaning of friendship?"

The line was quiet for a moment. Antoine: "Of course. I… I only have you and Saito. But I found you both. You are my team. Why do you ask this?"

Summer (choosing her words carefully): "I met two girls. Here. In real life. We've become… friends. But I still can't fully grasp it. The mechanics. The point. I only had you and Saito before. That was… digital. This is different."

Antoine: "I thought I was the only one who did not talk to anyone in the real world. My only friends are my camera and my two mysterious online ghosts."

Summer, laughing softly: "No, you weren't alone. You ridiculous Frenchman." Her voice softened. "So? What is it?"

Antoine's voice lost its playful edge, becoming uncharacteristically solemn. "Friendship is… it is home. Not a place made of bricks, but a place made of people. No matter how far you are from your homeland, or how deep the shit you are in—pardon my French—or what trouble finds you… your friends are your home. They will be there. Because friends are the family you get to choose for yourself, so you do not have to be alone in this cold universe. And because of that… we have to protect them. No matter the cost."

Summer was silent. A genuine, unforced smile touched her lips. She looked at the crow wallpaper on her monitor.

Summer: "Let's try to find Saito. For real this time."

Antoine, his voice firm: "Absolument. I would never forgive myself if something happened to him and we did nothing."

A quarter of an hour later. The Street.

The Cairo sun was already assertive, baking the pavement. Summer left the cool shade of her villa and fell into step with Hayat and Sandra. Hayat, usually vibrant, seemed a little nervous, her hands fiddling with the strap of her backpack.

Hayat: "What time is it now? It feels late."

Sandra (checking a sleek silver watch): "It's only seven-thirty. We have time."

Hayat: "We have half an hour then? Good."

Summer: "We can always grab a taxi if you're worried. My treat."

Hayat (waving her hands dismissively): "No, no, no. That's not necessary at all. The walk is good."

Sandra (bumping Hayat's shoulder playfully): "Then why did you bring it up? You're being weird."

Hayat (taking a deep breath): "Because I want to talk to you both about something… and I didn't want to talk about it within earshot of… anyone at school."

Sandra's playful demeanor vanished, replaced by concern. "What is it? Is everything okay?"

Hayat: "I'm… I'm thinking about wearing the hijab. Starting tomorrow."

Sandra (blinking in surprise): "And why can't you talk about that at school? That's amazing, Hayat!"

Hayat (looking down at her shoes): "Because you know how they are. They mock anything. Any girl who actually tries to follow something, to be devout in any way… they act like it's a fashion crime or a sign of weakness."

Summer (her voice low and firm): "Don't waste a single neuron on them. They're background noise. They're empty. They're jealous of anyone who has the courage to have a conviction, to do something that means something."

Hayat (looking up, hope flickering in her eyes): "Really? You think so?"

Sandra (looping her arm through Hayat's): "Yeah, Hayat. Summer's right. They're idiots."

Hayat (a smile breaking through her anxiety): "You know what? You two… you're the reason I'm even considering it seriously."

Sandra (her eyes widening): "Really? Us?"

They continued talking, their voices a warm hum beside her, but Summer drifted into her own thoughts, watching them from a slight remove.

Summer's internal monologue: For a year and a half now, these two have been seeing those boys from the football academy. I'm genuinely… happy for them. They found a slice of something normal. Something light. When I was with Elaine, it was just… friction. A way to feel something. A transaction. I was never in a relationship. Not like they are. I guess, in the end, I'm just the audience for their beautiful play. They have a life. A real one. And it's beautiful to watch.

She didn't realize she was smiling until she saw them both looking at her, their own faces bright and open.

Summer: "I'm proud of you both. Seriously."

The statement hung in the air, simple and true. All three of them smiled, a current of unspoken understanding and affection passing between them as they walked.

Midnight. A deserted street two kilometers from Isis International School.

The air was cooler now, smelling of dust and faint jasmine from a nearby wall. A young man stood under the flickering halo of a faulty streetlamp. Saito. His soft brown hair was tousled, his fair skin looked almost luminous in the uneven light. His dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned the empty street. He wore a dark red bomber jacket, faded blue jeans, and black fingerless gloves that revealed slender, capable fingers.

He didn't turn around but spoke to the darkness behind him. "Report."

Three figures detached themselves from the deeper shadows of a nearby alleyway, moving with a disciplined silence that belied their ages.

Faiveno (voice a low, respectful baritone): "Perimeter is clear, boss. What are we going to do now?"
Faiveno was a mountain of a teenager, his Filipino heritage evident in his strong features. He wore a simple green tactical shirt and black cargo pants, his hair shaved so short it was little more than shadow on his scalp. He stood a full head taller than Saito.

Kim Yong (bowing his head slightly): "We are at your command, Leader."
Kim was all lean muscle and quiet intensity. His black hair was short and impeccably styled. He wore a black sleeveless shirt that showed off toned arms, athletic shorts, and pristine white trainers. A stylized white wolf mask was pushed up onto the back of his head, its empty eyes watching the sky. He was exactly Saito's height.

Xian (shifting impatiently): "Leader, intel places the Ezis Empire's core members in this district. Where are these so-called kings? Haven't they already declared war on us by touching our network?"
Xian was the shortest of the group, compact and buzzing with nervous energy. His hair was a shocking, brilliant orange. He wore a red graphic tee under an unzipped hoodie and black jeans.

Saito finally turned, a calm, almost serene smile on his face. The flickering light caught the faint scar on his chin.

Saito: "Patience. They're testing us. Seeing if we'll flinch. If we're afraid. They want to measure our resolve before they show themselves."

Faiveno ( cracking his knuckles): "It's boring, my leader. All this waiting. I prefer action."

Xian: "Don't complain, Faiveno. The Leader had Kim book us that safe house. It's smart. A temporary base of operations. We're not tourists."

Kim looked at Saito, his expression deadly serious. "What is our next operational directive, Boss?"

Saito ( his voice calm, commanding): "We fall back. We go to the hotel tonight. We rest, we regroup, we analyze the data we've gathered. A tired soldier is a dead soldier."

Kim, Xian, Faiveno (in unison, their voices a low, fervent chant): "Long live the Leader!"

The three of them, visibly relieved to have orders, suddenly surged forward. In a well-coordinated move, Faiveno and Kim hoisted Saito onto their shoulders as Xian stabilized him. Saito, usually so composed, was caught completely off guard.

Saito (startled, grabbing onto Faiveno's shoulder for balance): "Whoa, whoa! What is this? What are you guys doing?!"

Xian ( grinning up at him): "You've been running operations for 72 hours with minimal sleep, Leader. Your cognitive functions must be depleted."

Faiveno ( adjusting his grip effortlessly): "So we'll be your transport. Save your energy for the important thinking."

Saito: "But—this is highly irregular—"

Kim ( his voice earnest): "It is the least we can do to ensure the mission's success. And your well-being."

Saito looked down at their earnest, determined faces. His stern expression melted into a reluctant, touched smile. He shook his head in surrender.

Saito: "Alright, alright. Have it your way, you maniacs."

The three broke into broad grins. They began marching down the deserted street, their leader held aloft like a conquering hero returning home.

The Three, chanting in hushed, triumphant tones: "Long live the Leader! Long live the Leader!"

Their voices echoed softly against the shuttered storefronts, a tiny pocket of absurd loyalty in the sleeping city.

Three days later. After school.

The afternoon sun was a heavy, golden blanket. Summer walked home, flanked by Hayat and Sandra. Hayat was wearing a simple, elegant navy blue hijab for the first time, and she kept touching it self-consciously, a nervous but proud smile on her face.

Summer: "Are you two free today? I was thinking we could hit that café downtown. The one with the mint lemonade."

Sandra (wincing apologetically): "Actually, I can't. I have… a thing. A date. With Amir. We're going to see that new action movie."

Hayat ( biting her lip): "Oh! Me too! Well, not the movie. But Karim is taking me to that new bookstore café. I'm so sorry, Summer."

Sandra: "Yeah, sorry. Raincheck?"

Summer's internal monologue: Dates. Their first proper ones. A wave of something warm and entirely unfamiliar washed over me. It wasn't envy. It was… vicarious joy. I'm actually happy for them.
She raised an eyebrow, a real, unguarded smile spreading across her face.

Summer, smiling: "It's okay. Really. Don't worry about it."

They reached their usual parting spot, a crossroads where their paths diverged.

Sandra (scuffing her shoe on the pavement): "We might be ditching you today, Summer, but…" She glanced at Hayat, who nodded enthusiastically.

Hayat: "...but we wanted to ask you something…"

Sandra & Hayat ( speaking in unison, their voices blending together): "...we want you to go on a proper adventure with us tomorrow! All day!"

The proposition hung in the air. Summer looked at their hopeful, excited faces. She felt a sudden, unexpected prickling at the corners of her eyes. She blinked rapidly.

Summer, her voice slightly thicker than usual: "Thank you. Both of you. I'd… I'd like that."

The smiles they gave her were worth more than any solitary cigarette on a rooftop. They waved and turned, each heading down their own street, their figures getting smaller until they disappeared.

Summer (to herself, a whisper): "What is this feeling?"

Her phone rang, startling her. She fished it out of her pocket. Her mother's picture flashed on the screen.

Summer: "Mom? Running late at the office again?"

Saba (on phone, the sound of keyboards clacking in the background): "Yes, habibti. I'm sorry. This merger paperwork is a nightmare. It might be a few more hours."

Summer: "It's fine. Can I go to the café for a bit? I'll get something to eat there."

Saba: "Okay, honey. Just be home before ten, promise? I should be back by 1 a.m. at the latest. Love you."

Summer: "Okay. Love you too. Don't work too hard."

Saba: "You either. Bye, my love."

The line went dead. She was alone again, but the emptiness felt different, lighter.

8:00 PM. The Café.

Summer sat at a wrought-iron table on the pedestrianized street, the gentle hum of the evening city a backdrop to her thoughts. Strings of fairy lights twinkled in the trees overhead. She nursed a glass of water, watching people stroll by. The air was warm and smelled of grilling meat and shisha tobacco.

Summer (staring at the condensation on her glass): "I wonder what they're doing right now. Probably nervous. Excited."

Her fingers itched for a cigarette. She pulled out the pack. Empty. She crumpled it in her fist.

Summer: "Last one. I'll have to grab more tomorrow."

Her phone buzzed twice in quick succession on the table. The screens lit up. One notification was from Antoine. The other name made her blood run cold: ELAINE.

Summer (a knot forming in her stomach): "Elaine. What the hell could she possibly want?"

Hesitantly, she tapped Elaine's message. It was a video file, titled with just a single mocking eye emoji. A lead weight of dread settled in her gut.

Summer: "What is this?"

She tapped the video. It opened full-screen. Elaine's face filled the display, her features sharp and unnervingly calm. She was filming herself in a dim, unfamiliar room, a stark black wall behind her. Summer's grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles turning white.

Elaine (in video, her voice a syrupy, false purr): "Summer. My dear, dear Summer. I've really missed you. It's been so… boring without you."

Summer (muttering to the screen): "You sent a video just to say that? Get a diary."

Elaine's face suddenly contorted into a wide, unnatural smile. Then she began to laugh, a high, breathy, unhinged sound that was completely devoid of joy. She tried to stifle it, putting a hand over her mouth, but her shoulders shook.

Elaine (in video, catching her breath, her eyes glittering): "Do you know where I am right now? Guess. Take a wild guess."

She smiled that terrible smile again and pointed the camera at herself, as if sharing a delicious secret.

Elaine (in video): "No? Look closer, Summer. Look at the details."

She slowly panned the camera to the side. The black wall wasn't blank. Spray-painted on it in a garish, shocking pink was a crude but unmistakable symbol: a crow. Her crow. The one from her computer wallpaper.

Summer's breath hitched. Rage and a cold, sharp fear lanced through her.

Elaine (in video, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper): "That's right. I'm in your house. Isn't that fun? I let myself in."

The half-formed glass of water slipped from Summer's numb fingers, crashing onto the table and soaking her jeans. She didn't feel it. The cigarette pack fell from her other hand.

Elaine (in video): "You must be so surprised. But wait… there's more. A little surprise party for you."

The camera panned further, jerkily. The scene that came into view made the world drop out from under her.

It was her room. Her black walls. And tied to her office chair, gagged with strips of black cloth, were Hayat and Sandra. Their eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated terror, tears streaming down their faces. Their clothes were torn. Two figures—just shadows in the dim light—stood behind them, hands on their shoulders.

Elaine (in video, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch): "Go on, boys! Show Summer what happens to little girls who ruin my fun!"

One of the shadows grabbed a handful of Sandra's hair, yanking her head back. The other leaned down and pressed his face against Hayat's neck. Their muffled screams were the most horrifying sound Summer had ever heard.

Elaine (in video, screaming with laughter now): "Show me! Show me how you're going to save them now! They need your help! Don't you want to be a HERO, Summer Eleven?!"

Summer was moving before the video ended. She shoved the phone into her pocket, the screen cracking against the table's edge as she stood up so fast her chair screeched backwards. A storm of pure, incandescent fury and blind terror erupted inside her, propelling her forward. She broke into a full-out sprint, shoving past startled couples, her heart a frantic drumbeat against her ribs.

Summer, screaming as she ran, her voice raw and tearing from her throat: "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO THEM?! THEY DIDN'T DO ANYTHING TO YOU! THEY'RE INNOCENT! WHY?!"

Her cry was swallowed by the city's noise, a desperate, unanswered plea against the indifferent night.

Meanwhile. Cairo International Airport. Arrivals Hall.

The air was cool, sterile, and smelled of disinfectant and jet fuel. A young man with pale, almost porcelain skin and eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the light around him walked briskly through the bustling terminal. A expensive camera bumped against his chest with each step. He wore a faded blue denim shirt, jeans, and worn-in leather boots. Antoine du Lac looked every bit the tourist, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd with a professional's detachment.

Antoine (checking his watch, muttering to himself): "Maintenant? Right on time."

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. His brow furrowed. Dozens of messages to Summer and Saito sat in his outbox, all unread. Delivered, but not seen.

Antoine (pocketing the phone, a line of worry appearing between his eyebrows): "Why doesn't she answer? This is not like her. Not like either of them."

He adjusted the strap of his camera bag, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a growing, gnawing anxiety.

Antoine (to himself, heading for the taxi rank): "Saito also does not answer… Merde. I hope they are both okay."

9:00 PM.

Summer arrived on her street, her lungs burning, her legs screaming in protest. She skidded to a halt at the wrought-iron garden gate, her hands slamming into the cold metal bars. And then she froze.

Her breath, which had been coming in ragged, sobbing gasps, stopped entirely. Her heart didn't just pound; it seemed to stutter and die in her chest. The world narrowed, the sounds of the city fading into a distant, meaningless roar.

Pure, primal terror seized her, turning her limbs to stone.

Summer (a choked, disbelieving whisper): "The house..."

It was gone. Not her house. A pyre. A raging inferno.

Orange and yellow flames clawed at the night sky, devouring the whitewashed walls, the magenta bougainvillea, the roof she'd sat on just hours before. Black smoke billowed upward, blotting out the stars. The heat hit her face from twenty meters away, a solid, punishing wall. The roar of the fire was a living thing.

Her legs betrayed her. They buckled, and she collapsed onto the rough pavement, her knees scraping hard. She couldn't process it. Couldn't compute. The world had ended.

Summer (her voice a broken thing): "Sandra… Hayat…"

She looked down at her own useless legs. She balled her hands into fists and slammed them into her thighs, over and over again, the pain a distant, irrelevant signal.

Summer: "Why won't you MOVE?! MOVE! GET UP!"

The memory of their voices, bright and happy from just hours ago, echoed in her skull, a cruel taunt. "We want you to go on an adventure with us tomorrow!"

She hit herself again, sobbing now, great heaving sobs that wracked her entire body. Tears of frustration, of rage, of utter, soul-crushing helplessness blurred the horrific scene in front of her.

Summer, screaming at her paralyzed body, her voice cracking with raw, animal despair: "MOVE! MOVE! I HAVE TO SAVE THEM! GET UP! GET UP AND MOVE!"