Monday morning arrived with a sky the color of bruised steel, and the school parking lot filled with the hum of engines and the slam of car doors. Musab walked through the main gates with Armish’s hand in his, her ponytail swinging, her laugh bright as she leaned into him. Arsala flanked his other side, her short black hair still wet from the shower, her dark eyes scanning the crowd with practiced disinterest. Fizbah trailed a step behind, her heavy breasts straining the buttons of her white shirt, her brown hair spilling over her shoulders, a quiet smile on her lips.
They were a constellation now—four bodies moving together through the hallways, drawing stares and whispers. Musab’s arm draped across Armish’s shoulders. Arsala’s fingers brushed Fizbah’s lower back. The cheerleading captain and the busty classmate and the petite dark-eyed girl who’d been his best friend since forever. Everyone knew. No one said a word.
Maryam stood by the water fountain, her phone clutched in both hands, her long black hair straight as a curtain. She watched them pass, her brown eyes tracking every touch, every shared glance, every laugh that didn’t include her. Her jaw tightened. She hadn’t spoken to Musab since the night of the live stream—since the video. He’d told her to delete it. She hadn’t. She’d watched it seventeen times. Each time she got angrier.
“Hey, Maryam.”
She blinked. Arsala had stopped, turned back. The others were a few steps ahead, Musab’s hand now on Armish’s waist.
“You coming to class?” Arsala’s voice was neutral. Polite. That made it worse.
“Yeah.” Maryam forced a smile. “Just grabbing water.”
Arsala nodded, held her gaze for a beat too long, then turned and caught up with the others. Maryam watched them disappear around the corner. Her fingers whitened around the phone.
Soon.
---
The week unspooled like thread from a spool. Tuesday afternoon found Musab and Armish alone in the penthouse, the floor-to-ceiling windows showing the campus in amber light. She sat on the leather sofa, her legs tucked under her, her long fingers tracing circles on his chest through his t-shirt. His arm was around her, his lips against her hair.
“Two weeks,” she said quietly. “Then you leave for Madrid.”
He didn’t answer. His hand moved to her jaw, tilting her face up. Her dark eyes were wet.
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I know.” His thumb traced her cheek. “I don’t want to leave you.”
She pressed closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What if I came with you?”
The words hung between them. He didn’t move. She felt his chest rise, hold, fall.
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.” She pulled back, met his eyes. “I’ll transfer. Take a gap year. Whatever. I don’t care about school, Musab. I care about you.”
His hand slid into her ponytail, pulling her in. He kissed her—deep and slow and full of everything he couldn’t say. When he broke it, his forehead rested against hers.
“Yes,” he said. “Come with me.”
She let out a breath she’d been holding and buried her face in his neck.
---
Wednesday evening, Arsala and Fizbah sat cross-legged on Fizbah’s bedroom floor, a bottle of wine between them, homework forgotten. The window was open, letting in the scent of rain on dry earth. Fizbah’s heavy-lidded eyes watched Arsala’s mouth as she spoke.
“He’s planning something,” Arsala said, swirling her glass. “I can tell. He gets this look—like he’s about to do something stupid and romantic.”
Fizbah laughed, soft and low. “That’s how he looked before he kissed me in my kitchen.”
Arsala’s eyes flickered. “Yeah. I remember.” She set her glass down. “You know, I used to hate you. For sitting on his lap.”
“I know.”
“But now…” Arsala’s gaze dropped to Fizbah’s lips. “Now I don’t.”
The silence stretched. Fizbah leaned forward, her breath warm and wine-sweet.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said.
Arsala’s heart stuttered. “What kind of thinking?”
“The kind that gets me wet.”
Arsala’s hand moved before she thought about it—her fingers brushing Fizbah’s knee. Fizbah didn’t pull away. Her skin was hot through the thin fabric of her jeans.
“I’ve never been with a girl,” Arsala said, her voice hoarse.
“Neither have I.” Fizbah’s hand covered hers. “But I want to try.”
Arsala’s mouth went dry. “What do you want to do?”
Fizbah’s voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes dark and hungry. “I want to fuck you with a strap-on.”
Arsala’s breath caught. Her hand tightened on Fizbah’s knee. “Now?”
“Now.”
---
Fizbah’s bed was white, with a quilt her grandmother had made. She pulled a harness from her drawer—black leather, dildo attached, thick and curved. Arsala watched from the edge of the mattress, her heart hammering, her thighs pressed together. Fizbah stepped out of her jeans, pulled the harness up, adjusted the straps. The dildo stood out from her pelvis, dark against her pale skin. She turned, and Arsala saw the hunger in her face.
“On your back.”
Arsala obeyed. Her shirt came off, then her bra. Her breasts were round and firm, her nipples hard. Fizbah knelt over her, pressed her lips to Arsala’s mouth, and kissed her slow. Her tongue slid in, tasted the wine. Arsala moaned, her hands finding Fizbah’s hips, pulling her closer. The dildo pressed against her thigh, warm from contact, and she felt a rush of heat between her legs.
Fizbah broke the kiss and moved down. Her mouth found Arsala’s left nipple, sucked hard, made Arsala arch her back. Her fingers trailed down Arsala’s stomach, found the waistband of her shorts, pulled them off. Arsala’s panties were soaked through, a dark patch visible. Fizbah pressed her palm flat against that heat, and Arsala whimpered.
“You’re so wet for me.”
“Yes.”
Fizbah pulled the panties aside, slid one finger inside. Arsala gasped. Fizbah added a second, watched Arsala’s face as she fucked her slowly. Her thumb found the clit, pressed in circles.
“I want to feel you come on my fingers first,” Fizbah said. “Then I’m going to fuck you with this.” She gestured with the dildo.
Arsala’s breathing was ragged. “Do it.”
Fizbah’s fingers moved faster, harder, curling inside her. Arsala’s hips bucked, her hands gripping the sheets, her mouth open in a breathless cry. The orgasm hit her in waves, her body shuddering, her cunt clenching around Fizbah’s fingers. Fizbah watched her, eyes bright, and kept moving until Arsala pushed her hand away, gasping.
“Not done.” Fizbah leaned over, positioned the dildo at Arsala’s entrance. The tip was slick with lube and Arsala’s own wetness. She pressed in—slow, inch by inch. Arsala’s eyes went wide, her hands flying up to Fizbah’s shoulders.
“Fuck—”
“You feel so good.” Fizbah pushed deeper, until she was fully inside. The harness pressed against her own clit, sending sparks through her. She began to move—long, slow strokes that made Arsala’s breath catch with each thrust.
“Look at me.”
Arsala’s eyes, dark and dazed, met hers. Fizbah fucked her harder, faster, leaning down to kiss her again. The room filled with the wet sound of the dildo sliding in and out, with Arsala’s moans, with Fizbah’s heavy breathing. Arsala’s second orgasm built, crested, and broke with a cry that turned into Fizbah’s name.
Fizbah rode the aftershocks, then pulled out slowly, the dildo slick and shining. She lay down beside Arsala, pulled the smaller girl into her arms.
“That was—” Arsala’s voice was hoarse. “That was a lot.”
“Good?”
“Fucking amazing.”
Fizbah smiled, kissed her forehead. “We have to tell Musab.”
“He’ll love it.”
---
Thursday night, the four of them lay tangled in the penthouse bed. Musab had his arms around Armish; Arsala was draped across his chest, Fizbah curled on his other side. The lamp cast warm shadows. Musab’s hand moved through Armish’s hair.
“I have something to tell you,” he said.
Armish looked up. Arsala and Fizbah exchanged a glance.
“I’m planning to propose to you,” he said. “After my debut in Madrid. I’ve been talking to Arsala and Fizbah about it.”
Armish’s eyes filled with tears. “What?”
Arsala squeezed her hand. “We’re all in. We want you to be his.”
“And yours,” Fizbah added. “All of us, together.”
Armish buried her face in Musab’s chest, her shoulders shaking. “Yes. Yes, I’ll say yes. Whenever. Yes.”
Musab kissed the top of her head. “Good. Because I already bought a ring.”
Arsala laughed. “Told you he was planning something stupid and romantic.”
---
Friday afternoon, the last week before Madrid began. The air was thick with humidity and tension. Maryam watched from the library window as the four of them crossed the courtyard—Musab in the middle, Armish hanging off his arm, Arsala laughing at something Fizbah said. She saw the way their bodies moved together. The way they belonged.
Her hand curled into a fist. She pulled out her phone, opened a messaging app, typed a single line to a contact she’d saved weeks ago: Ready when you are.
The reply came fast. Monday. The park after school. I’ll handle the rest.
Maryam smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile.
---
Saturday morning, Armish woke early. She stood at the penthouse window, watching the campus stir to life below. Musab was still in bed, one arm reaching for her spot. Arsala and Fizbah were tangled on the other side of the mattress. Everything was perfect.
She pulled out her phone, checked the time. Seven forty-three. She had a text from an unknown number: Your future is waiting. Meet me at the old gazebo in the park. I know what you and Musab are planning. Come alone if you want to keep it safe.
She frowned. Read it again. Then, deciding it was probably one of Maryam’s games, she slipped out of her shorts, pulled on jeans, and wrote back: Who is this?
No reply.
She should have woken Musab. Should have shown him the message. Instead, she scribbled a note on the bedside table— Gone for a walk, be back soon —and left the penthouse, the door clicking softly behind her.
The morning air was cool, the streets quiet. The park was a ten-minute walk. The old gazebo stood at the edge, half-hidden by overgrown hedges. She saw no one. She checked her phone again. Still no reply.
Behind her, leaves rustled.
She turned—and saw nothing. Only the hedges, the empty path. Then a hand clamped over her mouth, and everything went dark.
---
Musab woke at noon to a cold bed and a note. He read it, frowned, called her name. No answer. He called her phone. It rang once, then went to voicemail. He tried again. Same result.
Arsala stirred. “What’s wrong?”
“Armish went for a walk. She’s not answering.”
Fizbah sat up, her brown hair a mess. “Since when?”
“The note says ‘be back soon.’ It’s been four hours.”
Musab got up, pulled on a shirt. His hands were shaking. He called Sameer, who hadn’t seen her. He called her mother, who hadn’t heard from her. He called the school, the police station, every number he had.
No one had seen Armish Zubair since she left the penthouse that morning.
By evening, panic had settled into a cold, hard knot in his chest. He stood at the window, watching the streetlights flicker on, and felt the shadow of something he couldn’t name wrap around the room.
Arsala came up behind him, her voice barely a whisper. “We’ll find her.”
Fizbah said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the darkening park beyond the glass.
And somewhere in the city, in a room with drawn curtains, Maryam watched Armish’s unconscious face on her phone screen, the livestream already counting viewers. She smiled, and the chat exploded with emojis and laughter.
“Soon,” she whispered. “Soon, everyone will know what you really are.”
Musab's hand shot out, grabbing his car keys from the hook by the door. The metal bit into his palm. "I'm going to find her."
His voice was flat. Dead. Arsala and Fizbah exchanged a glance behind him.
"Musab—" Arsala started.
"No." He turned, his blue eyes hard. "I'm not sitting here. She's out there. Maryam took her. I know it."
Fizbah stepped forward, her hand reaching for his arm. "You don't even know where to—"
His phone lit up on the counter. A notification sound. Then another. Then a third.
All three of them froze.
Musab crossed the room in three strides, snatched the phone, unlocked it. His thumb hovered over the screen. A video message. From an unknown number. The preview showed a frozen frame—dark, grainy, unmistakable.
Armish.
He tapped play.
The video loaded. Armish was tied to a wooden chair, her wrists bound behind her with what looked like rope, her ponytail hanging loose and tangled. Her head lolled forward, unconscious. A man stood behind her—tall, broad-shouldered, his face hidden by a black mask. He held a gun at his side, casual, like it was a tool he used every day. The video lasted eleven seconds. The man didn't speak. He just stood there, the gun catching the light, while Armish's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
The video ended. A text message appeared beneath it.
Meet me at the old hunting lodge on Mill Road. Come alone, or she goes live on OnlyFans. The whole world sees your little cheerleader. You have one hour.
Another message, from a different number: If you bring the cops, I start with her fingers. One for every siren.
Musab's hand tightened on the phone. The screen cracked under his thumb—a hairline fracture spidering across the glass. He didn't notice. His jaw was locked, his breath coming in short, sharp pulls through his nose.
"I'm going to kill her."
The words came out low, almost a growl. His eyes had gone dark, the blue swallowed by his pupils. Arsala had never seen him like this. Not after the crash. Not when he confessed about Maryam. This was something else—a cold, quiet rage that filled the room like smoke.
"Musab." Arsala's voice was careful. "Musab, look at me."
He didn't look at her. His eyes stayed on the cracked screen, on the frozen frame of Armish's unconscious face.
"I'm going to kill her," he repeated. "I swear to God, Arsala, I will put a bullet in her—"
"Musab."
Fizbah stepped in front of him, her hands on his chest. She was shorter than him, softer, but she pressed her palms flat against his heartbeat and held his gaze. "Listen to me. We have to worry about Armish first."
His chest was heaving. His hands were shaking. She felt it through his shirt.
"She's alive," Fizbah said. "She's alive, and we're going to get her back. But if you go there alone, right now, with this"—she pressed harder—"you'll get yourself killed, and then she has nobody."
Arsala moved to his side, her voice softer now. "We need a plan. A real one."
Musab's eyes flickered. The rage was still there, burning behind his irises, but something else was breaking through. Fear. His lower lip trembled once, then stilled.
"What plan?" His voice cracked. "She has Armish. She has a man with a gun. What the fuck kind of plan—"
"A plan that uses what she wants."
Arsala's voice was quiet. Deliberate. Musab turned to look at her.
She met his eyes. "She wants you. That's what this is about. She's been watching us all week. She wants what we have."
Fizbah nodded slowly. "So give it to her. Pretend."
The silence stretched.
Musab's jaw worked. "You want me to—"
"Seduce her," Arsala said. "Get her alone. Keep her attention on you. Meanwhile, Fizbah and I come in through the back, find Armish, get her out."
"And if the man is there?"
"We'll handle him." Fizbah's voice was harder than he'd ever heard it. "We're not going in unarmed."
Musab stared at them. Two girls. Eighteen years old. Planning to take on a man with a gun. His hands were still shaking.
"This is insane."
"Do you have a better idea?" Arsala's voice was sharp. "You go in alone, she calls the shots. We go in together, we have a chance. But she can't know we're there. She has to think you came alone, that you're doing what she says because you want to."
Musab's gaze dropped to the floor. His reflection stared back at him from the polished wood—blurred, fractured, split into pieces. Just like his life. Just like everything he'd tried to hold together.
"I can't lose her." His voice was barely a whisper. "I can't lose any of you."
Arsala's hand found his. Squeezed. "You won't."
Fizbah moved to the kitchen drawer, pulled it open. Flashlights. A knife block. She pulled out two long kitchen knives, tested the weight of one in her hand, then grabbed a third. She handed one to Arsala, who took it without hesitation.
Musab watched them. Then he turned, walked to his bedroom closet, and pulled out a metal box from the back shelf. He hadn't opened it in three years—not since his father had given it to him, told him it was for emergencies, for when the world went wrong and the cops were too far away.
The lock clicked. He lifted the lid.
The gun was a Glock 19, black, compact, wrapped in an oilcloth. He picked it up. It was heavier than he remembered. He checked the magazine—full. Racked the slide, chambered a round, clicked the safety on. He tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, at the small of his back, and pulled his hoodie down over it.
Arsala and Fizbah watched him from the doorway. Neither spoke.
"Let's go," he said.
---
The drive took forty minutes. Mill Road was a dirt track that wound through dry scrubland, past abandoned farmhouses and rusted fences, until the trees thickened and the light died. The old hunting lodge sat at the end of a dead-end lane, surrounded by pines, its windows dark, its porch sagging. A single light burned on the ground floor—a yellow square in the encroaching night.
Musab killed the engine a hundred meters out. The headlights died. Darkness swallowed the car.
Arsala leaned forward from the back seat, her voice low. "We'll circle around through the trees. Give us ten minutes before you go in."
Fizbah was already opening her door, the knife tucked into her jacket, a flashlight in her hand. She paused, looked back at Musab. His face was half-lit by the distant glow from the lodge, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the building.
She paused, looked back at Musab. His face was half-lit by the distant glow from the lodge, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the building. She didn't say anything. Neither did he. Arsala was already slipping into the treeline, a shadow among shadows, the kitchen knife glinting once before the dark swallowed her. Fizbah followed, her footsteps silent on the pine needles.
Musab counted to sixty. Then he started the engine.
The car rolled forward slowly, headlights off, gravel crunching under the tires. He pulled up to the front of the lodge and killed the engine. The silence that followed was thick enough to taste—pine resin, damp wood, something metallic underneath. He stepped out, the Glock pressing cold against his spine under the hoodie. The front door was cracked open, a sliver of yellow light spilling onto the porch.
He pushed it open.
The living room was cluttered with old furniture draped in white sheets. Dust motes swam in the single lamp's glow. Maryam sat in a chair at the far end, her legs crossed, her phone in her hand. She wore a black dress, her long hair straight and shining, her lips painted red. She smiled when she saw him.
"So you came." Her voice was soft, almost tender. "Oh, this love of yours." She stood, walked toward him, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. "I was starting to think you didn't care."
Musab's hand twitched toward his back. He stopped himself. The man was somewhere. With Armish. He couldn't see him. "Where is she?"
"Upstairs." Maryam stopped a few feet away, her head tilted, studying him. "You look good, Musab. Even when you're scared."
"I'm not scared." His voice came out flat.
"Yes, you are." She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his chest. "I can feel it. Your heart is racing."
He didn't move. Didn't flinch. "Take me to her."
She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked toward the stairs. "Follow me."
The staircase groaned under their weight. The second floor was a narrow hallway with three doors. Maryam stopped at the last one, pushed it open, and stepped aside. Musab walked in.
His stomach dropped.
Armish was tied to a wooden chair in the center of the room, her wrists bound behind her back with thick rope, her ankles strapped to the chair legs. Her uniform was torn—a sleeve ripped, the collar loose, buttons missing. A dark bruise bloomed on her cheekbone. Her ponytail had come undone, her hair hung in tangled strands across her face. Her head was bowed, her breathing shallow.
Behind her stood a man. Tall. Broad. Black mask covering everything except his eyes—cold, empty, patient. He held a pistol at his side, finger resting on the trigger guard.
"Armish."
Her head lifted. Her eyes found his. They were red, swollen, but they lit up when she saw him. A sob caught in her throat. "Musab—"
He took a step forward. The man raised the gun, aiming it at Armish's head. Musab froze.
"Ah-ah." Maryam's voice was bright, almost cheerful. "Not so fast."
Musab's hands were shaking. He looked at Armish—the bruise, the tear tracks on her cheeks, the way her lips trembled. His chest caved in.
"Don't worry, love." His voice cracked. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Armish smiled through her tears. "I knew you'd come."
Musab turned to Maryam. The rage was back, cold and sharp. "What do you want?"
She walked past him, her fingers trailing across his shoulder, and stopped in front of Armish. She cupped Armish's chin, tilting her face up, studying the bruise like it was a painting. "You know what I want." She let go and turned to face him. "I want you."
"You can't have me."
Her eyes flashed. "Why not?" Her voice rose, the sweetness gone. "Why the fuck not? You can fuck three girls—three—but I can't even have one night? What do they have that I don't?" She stepped closer, her face inches from his. "Does Arsala suck your cock better? Does Armish's pussy feel tighter? Does Fizbah's big tits make you come harder?"
Musab's jaw tightened. "Yes."
She recoiled like he'd slapped her.
"They're better than you," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "Every single one of them."
Maryam's face went white. Then red. She spun to the man. "Point it at her head."
The man obeyed. The muzzle touched Armish's temple. Armish closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.
"No!" Musab's voice broke. "No—please—okay. Okay. What do you want? I'll give you anything. Just don't hurt her."
Maryam's smile returned, slow and cruel. She walked back to him, pressed her body against his, her hand sliding down his chest, his stomach, stopping at his belt. "I want you to fuck me." She looked at Armish. "In front of her."
Armish's eyes went wide. "No—Musab, don't—"
Musab's hand found Maryam's wrist, stopping her. "Not in front of her."
"That's the only way you get to keep her alive." Maryam's voice was steel. "I want her to see. I want her to know what it feels like to watch."
Musab's watch vibrated against his wrist. Three short pulses. Arsala and Fizbah were in the lodge.
He took a breath. "Not here."
Maryam arched an eyebrow.
"If you want me," he said, his voice steady now, "I want you downstairs. In the living room. Not in this room." He glanced at Armish. "She's already been through enough."
Maryam considered him. Then she smiled. "Fine. But she comes too. I want her watching from the couch."
"Fine."
Maryam nodded to the man. "Bring her."
The man holstered his gun, grabbed Armish by the arm, and pulled her to her feet. Her bound wrists made her stumble. Musab's fists clenched. He forced himself to look away, to follow Maryam down the stairs.
The living room was larger than it had seemed. Maryam positioned Armish on a moth-eaten couch in the corner, her hands still tied behind her. The man stood behind the couch, his hand resting on his holstered gun, his eyes fixed on Musab.
"Sit her where she can see," Maryam said. She turned to Musab, her hands already reaching for the hem of her dress. "Now. Show me what makes you so special."
Musab looked at Armish. She was shaking her head, her lips forming the word no. He looked away.
"Undress me," Maryam said.
He stepped forward, his hands finding the zipper of her dress. He pulled it down. The fabric fell away, pooling at her feet. She wore nothing underneath. Her body was thin, her breasts small, her nipples already hard. She reached for his hoodie, pulled it over his head, tossed it aside. Her fingers found his belt, unbuckled it, unzipped his jeans. She pushed them down along with his boxers. His cock was already hard—not from desire, but from adrenaline, from the cold, from the need to keep her distracted.
"See?" Maryam said, looking over her shoulder at Armish. "He wants me. He can't help it."
Armish's face was wet. She didn't look away.
Maryam sank to her knees. She took his cock in her hand, stroked it once, then opened her mouth and took him in. Her tongue worked the shaft, her cheeks hollowed as she sucked. She moaned, loud, theatrical, her eyes closed. The man behind the couch shifted his weight, watching.
Musab stared at the wall. He counted the seconds. Ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes.
Maryam pulled off with a wet pop. "Look at me when I suck your cock."
He looked down. Her eyes were hungry. She took him again, deeper this time, her throat relaxing as she swallowed him whole. Her hand cupped his balls, squeezed. He bit the inside of his cheek.
When she was satisfied, she stood, wiped her mouth, and pressed her body against his. "Fuck me," she whispered. "Fuck me like you fuck them."
He lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her to the armchair, dropped her onto it, and knelt between her thighs. She was already wet—a slick shine on her inner thighs. He positioned himself at her entrance and pushed in without warning.
She gasped, then moaned, her head falling back. "Yes—yes—fuck me—"
He fucked her hard. Not out of passion—out of rage. Each thrust was a hammer blow, designed to hurt, to punish, to keep her mind off everything else. Her nails raked his back. Her legs tightened around him. She was moaning, babbling, lost in it.
Behind him, he heard the man grunt. Heard him shift closer. The man's attention was on the show, on Maryam's bouncing body, on the wet sounds of sex filling the room.
Musab saw the man's hand move to his own crotch. Adjust himself. He was watching, not guarding.
Now.
Arsala came from the side—a blur of motion, the kitchen knife raised. The man saw her at the last second, twisted, and her blade caught his arm instead of his throat. He roared, grabbed her by the neck, lifted her off her feet. Her legs kicked. The knife clattered to the floor.
Fizbah appeared from behind the couch, her own knife raised, but the man's boot caught her in the ribs and sent her sprawling. She landed hard, gasping.
Musab ripped himself out of Maryam. She screamed in protest, but he was already moving, his hand finding the Glock at the small of his back—still there, still loaded. He raised it, aimed, and fired.
The shot was deafening in the small room.
The man's head snapped back. He let go of Arsala's neck. She dropped, coughing, as his body crumpled to the floor. The gunshot echoed, then faded, leaving a ringing silence.
Maryam stared, her mouth open, her body still naked and glistening. "No—"
Fizbah crawled to Armish, her fingers working the rope. The knots gave way. Armish's hands sprang free, and Fizbah pulled her to her feet.
Musab kept the Glock trained on Maryam. She was backing away, her hands up, her face crumpled in disbelief. "No, no, no—all I wanted was a night—just one night with you—why can't you share him with me like you share with them?"
Armish's breath came in ragged sobs. She looked at the man's body, at the blood pooling under his head. Then she looked at the gun on the floor—his gun, fallen from his hand.
She bent down and picked it up.
"Armish—" Musab started.
She raised the gun. Her hands were steady. Her eyes were dry now.
"You wanted to see?" Armish's voice was quiet, terrible. "Look at me, Maryam. Look at what you did."
Maryam's eyes went wide. "Please—I'm sorry—I didn't mean—"
The first shot hit her chest. She staggered backward, a red flower blooming on her white skin.
The second shot hit her stomach. She doubled over, fell to her knees.
The third shot hit her forehead. She dropped.
The gun clattered to the floor. Armish stared at the body, her face blank, her hands shaking now. She looked at her hands. At the blood. At the two still forms on the floor.
Then she broke down. Her legs gave way. She collapsed to her knees, her shoulders heaving, sobs tearing out of her throat. "Oh God—oh God—I killed her—I killed her—"
Musab dropped the Glock, crossed the room in two strides, and wrapped his arms around her. His naked skin pressed against her torn uniform. He held her as she sobbed, his hand cradling the back of her head, his lips against her hair.
"It's done," he whispered. "I'm here. You're safe. It's done."
Arsala stumbled over, rubbing her throat, and knelt beside them. Her hand found Armish's back. Fizbah joined a moment later, her ribs aching, her face pale, but her hand covering Armish's.
They stayed like that—four bodies tangled on a bloodstained floor, breathing together, holding each other together.
After a long moment, Fizbah spoke, her voice rough. "We have to do something about the bodies."
No one answered. The lamp flickered. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows.
Musab pulled back, cupped Armish's face in his hands, and wiped her tears with his thumbs. "Look at me."
She looked at him. Her eyes were red, hollow, terrified.
"We're going to get through this," he said. "Together. I promise."
She nodded, a tiny, broken motion.
He kissed her forehead. Then he stood, pulled on his jeans, and looked at the two bodies. "First, we check if there's a basement. Or a car. Something we can move them in."
Arsala stood, her hand still touching her bruised throat. "There were keys in the kitchen. I saw them."
Fizbah was already on her feet, her knife back in her hand. "I'll check the backyard. Make sure no one heard the shots."
Musab looked down at Armish, still on her knees, her face buried in her hands. He knelt beside her again, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped his hoodie around her shoulders. She pulled it tight, her fingers gripping the fabric like a lifeline.
"Come on," he said gently. "Let's get you out of here."
She looked at Maryam's body one last time. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Then she let Musab guide her toward the door, toward the cold night air, toward whatever came next.
Musab's hand was still on Armish's shoulder when he stopped at the doorframe. He looked back. The bodies lay in the lamplight—Maryam sprawled on the floor, the masked man crumpled beside the couch. Blood had pooled, dark and spreading, soaking into the old wood. The room smelled of copper and gunpowder and sex.
"We need to wrap them." His voice was hoarse. "There's a tarp in the car. I keep it in the trunk."
Arsala was already moving, her hand pressed against the bruise forming on her throat. "I'll get it." She slipped out into the night, the door creaking behind her.
Fizbah stood in the center of the room, her knife still in her hand, her eyes fixed on the bodies. Her ribs ached with every breath. She didn't look away. "The man—who is he? She never said his name."
Musab shook his head. "Doesn't matter now."
Armish hadn't moved. She stood with the hoodie wrapped around her shoulders, her hair hanging in tangled strands, her hands limp at her sides. Her eyes were still on Maryam's body—on the neat hole between her eyebrows, the way her lips had parted in surprise, the blood that had stopped spreading.
Musab turned to her. His chest was bare, his jeans unbuttoned, his feet cold on the floor. He reached for her hand. Her fingers were ice.
"Armish. Look at me."
She didn't move.
"Armish."
Her head turned. Her eyes found his. They were dark, hollow, ringed with red. "I killed her."
"You saved us."
"I killed her."
He pulled her close, pressed her face into his shoulder. Her hands stayed at her sides, but her body leaned into his, a small surrender. "You did what you had to do," he said against her hair. "I would have done it myself."
Arsala returned with the tarp. She spread it on the floor, and Musab gently released Armish, guiding her to sit in the corner, away from the bodies. Fizbah sheathed her knife and grabbed the man's ankles. Musab took his wrists. Together, they lifted him onto the tarp. He was heavy, limp, his mask still covering his face. Musab didn't pull it off. He didn't want to know.
Arsala wrapped Maryam's body in a dusty blanket from the couch, then lifted her—smaller, lighter—and laid her beside the man on the tarp. The two bodies lay side by side, anonymous, emptied of everything that had made them dangerous.
They rolled the tarp into a tight bundle, tied it with rope from the kitchen. Musab dragged it to the back door while Arsala and Fizbah scrubbed the floor with bleach they found under the sink, working in silence, the smell of chemicals cutting through the copper and the sex. By the time the tarp was loaded into the trunk of Musab's car, the floor was clean. Not perfect. But clean enough. The lamp still burned. The windows still rattled in the wind. The lodge was empty of everything except the echo of gunfire.
Musab closed the trunk. The night air was cold, sharp against his skin. He stood there for a long moment, looking at the dark trees, the stars barely visible through the clouds. Then he got into the driver's seat and started the engine.
Armish sat in the passenger seat, the hoodie pulled tight, her knees drawn up to her chest. Arsala and Fizbah were in the back—Arsala's hand on Fizbah's thigh, Fizbah's head leaning against the window. No one spoke. The headlights cut through the dark, illuminating the dirt track as they pulled away.
The drive back was a long exhale. The city lights grew closer, spread across the horizon, and then they were in the suburbs, then the familiar streets, then the parking garage beneath the penthouse. Musab killed the engine and sat for a moment, his hands still gripping the wheel.
No one moved.
Then Arsala opened her door, and the spell broke.
---
The penthouse was warm. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed the campus below, quiet and dark. The lamp in the corner cast a soft amber glow. Everything was exactly as they'd left it—the half-empty coffee cups on the table, the throw blanket crumpled on the couch, the books stacked on the counter. A world that didn't know what had happened.
Armish walked to the couch and sat down. Her hands were in her lap. She stared at the wall.
Musab watched her from the doorway, then turned to Arsala and Fizbah. Arsala's throat was bruised, a handprint darkening on her pale skin. Fizbah's ribs ached—she kept her arm wrapped around herself, her face drawn. They looked exhausted. They looked like survivors.
"We need to sleep," Musab said.
Arsala nodded. She took Fizbah's hand and led her toward the bedroom. At the door, she paused, looked back at Armish. "Should one of us stay with her?"
Musab shook his head. "I will."
Arsala held his gaze for a moment, then nodded and disappeared into the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind her.
Musab crossed to the couch and sat beside Armish. He didn't touch her. He sat close enough that she could feel his warmth, and then they sat together, watching the wall, the night deepening outside the windows.
She spoke without turning her head. "I keep seeing her face."
"I know."
"Every time I close my eyes."
"I know."
"I don't think I'll ever stop seeing it."
He didn't have an answer for that. He put his arm around her, and she leaned into him, her head on his shoulder, her body trembling in small waves. He held her, and eventually her breathing slowed, deepened, became even. She was asleep.
He didn't move. He sat there, her weight against him, and watched the first gray light of dawn creep across the windows. He didn't sleep. He couldn't.
---
When the sun was fully up, Arsala emerged from the bedroom. She wore one of Musab's t-shirts, her short hair mussed, the bruise on her throat vivid in the morning light. She stopped at the edge of the living room, taking in the scene—Armish asleep against Musab, his eyes open, fixed on nothing.
She walked to the kitchen. Filled the kettle. Turned it on. The click of the burner was loud in the quiet.
Fizbah came out a few minutes later, wearing a loose tank top, her brown hair tangled, her hand pressed against her ribs. She sat at the kitchen table, her eyes heavy, and watched Arsala make tea.
Musab heard their voices—low, careful—and finally, gently, he shifted Armish's head onto a cushion. She stirred, murmured something, but didn't wake. He stood, his legs stiff, and walked to the kitchen.
"Morning." His voice was rough.
Arsala looked up from the steaming mug in her hands. "Armish still asleep?"
"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair, sat down across from Fizbah. "She didn't wake up all night."
Fizbah pushed a mug toward him. He wrapped his hands around it, the heat seeping into his palms.
Arsala sat down, her eyes on the table. Then she spoke, her voice quiet but steady. "Me and Fizbah were talking. About last night."
Musab looked up.
"We think—" Fizbah started, then stopped. She looked at Arsala, who nodded. "We think we shouldn't talk about it. Not to anyone. Not ever."
Musab's jaw tightened. "We can't pretend it didn't happen."
"We can try." Arsala's voice was hard. "We clean up, we move on, we never speak of it again. That's the only way."
Musab stared at her. "And what about us?"
"That's the other thing." Arsala set her mug down. "We think you should move to Madrid. With Armish."
The words hung in the air.
"This is what we do now?" Musab shook his head. "We split up?"
"No." Fizbah's voice was soft but firm. "We stay behind. Me and Arsala. We finish school, we keep the story straight. You go to Madrid with Armish. A fresh start. You don't have to carry the weight of what happened here."
"I said no." He set his mug down, harder than he meant. The tea sloshed over the rim. "We're not doing this. We're not splitting up."
"Musab—"
"No." He looked from Arsala to Fizbah, his eyes fierce, desperate. "I almost lost all of you. I'm not losing any of you now. If we're leaving, we leave together."
Arsala's voice cracked. "And do what? Four of us in Madrid? What about school? What about—"
"There are schools in Madrid. There are apartments. There's a whole world." He leaned forward. "I have the contract. I have money saved. I have—" He stopped, then his voice dropped. "I have you. All of you. That's what matters."
Fizbah's hand found his on the table. "We can't just—"
"Yes, we can." His voice was steady now. "We can leave tonight. Finish what we need to finish here, then go. Start over. All of us."
Arsala looked at Fizbah. Something passed between them—a question, an answer, a risk weighed and accepted. Then Arsala nodded.
"Okay."
Fizbah's hand tightened on his. "Okay."
---
The week that followed was a blur of quiet logistics. Musab called his agent, said he'd be arriving early. Arsala withdrew from school with a note about a family emergency. Fizbah packed her things in two suitcases, called her mother and said she was spending the summer with friends. Armish moved through the penthouse like a ghost, speaking little, sleeping long, waking from nightmares that left her shaking in Musab's arms. But each day, she came back a little more. Each night, she held on a little tighter.
On Thursday, Arsala handed out tickets. Four seats on a flight to Madrid. One-way. Departure at midnight on Saturday.
On Friday, they packed. Four suitcases, one shared future.
On Saturday evening, they stood in the penthouse for the last time. The windows showed the campus below, empty and quiet. The years they'd spent there—the games, the locker rooms, the secrets, the love—all of it was a ghost now, haunting the hallways they were leaving behind.
Musab picked up his suitcase. "Ready?"
Armish looked at him. Her eyes were still tired, still carrying the weight of what she'd done. But there was something else now. Hope. A fragile, stubborn thing, glowing in the dark.
"Ready," she said.
Arsala took Fizbah's hand. Fizbah squeezed it.
They walked out together. The penthouse door clicked shut behind them, and they didn't look back.
---
The airport was bright, crowded, full of strangers and announcements and the roar of engines. They moved through security as a unit—four passports, four boarding passes, four carry-on bags. The gate was at the far end of the terminal, and they walked slowly, not rushing, as if savoring every last step on home soil.
They found a row of empty seats near the window and sat down. Outside, the runway stretched into the dark, lights blinking along its edges. A plane was taxiing, its wing lights catching the glass.
Armish leaned against Musab's shoulder. Arsala sat on his other side, her leg pressed against his. Fizbah sat across from them, her head back, her eyes closed, her hand resting on her stomach where her ribs still ached.
No one spoke. The boarding call would come soon. The plane would lift them into the night, carry them over the ocean, set them down somewhere new.
And behind them, the hunting lodge sat empty, its floor scrubbed clean, its secrets buried in a place no one would find. Two bodies, wrapped in tarp, sunk in a ravine thirty miles from where they'd died. A livestream account, deleted, scrubbed, gone. A story that would never be told.
Musab's watch beeped. Twenty minutes to boarding.
He looked at the three girls beside him. His best friend. His lover. His future. His family, in every way that mattered.
He let out a slow breath, and for the first time in a week, the knot in his chest loosened.
---
The boarding call crackled over the speakers. They stood, gathered their bags, and joined the line. The gate agent scanned their passports one by one, each beep a step toward the new world.
Musab stepped through the jet bridge, Armish's hand in his, Arsala at his shoulder, Fizbah a step behind.
The cabin was warm. The seats were narrow. They found their row—two on each side of the aisle. Musab and Armish took the window and middle. Arsala and Fizbah took the pair across the aisle.
The engines hummed. The plane began to push back.
Armish's hand found his. Her fingers were warm now. Her grip was steady.
"I love you," she said.
He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles. "I love you too."
Across the aisle, Arsala was leaning her head on Fizbah's shoulder, her eyes on the window, watching the terminal lights slide past. Fizbah's arm was around her, her thumb tracing circles on Arsala's sleeve.
They were not running away. They were running toward.
The plane turned onto the runway. The engines swelled. The cabin vibrated beneath their feet. And then—
The wheels left the ground.
The city fell away below them, a grid of lights shrinking into darkness. The clouds swallowed them, gray and white, and then they broke through into a sky thick with stars.
Armish looked out the window, her reflection ghostly on the glass. The bruise on her cheek had faded to yellow. Her eyes were clear.
She leaned back in her seat, her hand still in Musab's, and for the first time since the lodge, she smiled.
It was small. It was fragile. But it was real.
High above the clouds, four hearts beat in the same rhythm, carried by the same wings, flying toward a future no one had written yet.
And somewhere below, in a city that was already becoming a memory, a phone buzzed in an empty penthouse—a message notification on a forgotten tablet, left behind in the rush.
The screen lit up. A single line.
I know what you did.
But no one was there to see it.
The cabin lights dimmed. The plane settled into its course. And the four of them drifted, one by one, into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.