Omar leaned back in his leather chair, the dim glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls of his office. The hum of the city outside was a distant murmur, drowned out by the steady drone of the television mounted in the corner. The news had been playing for hours, cycling through the same updates, the same carefully curated statements from government officials. Then, the screen cut to the president—his face solemn, his tone measured—as he addressed the nation.
"My fellow citizens," the president began, his voice smooth with practiced empathy, "after careful consideration, I have decided to open negotiations with the individuals responsible for the attack on the palace and the abduction of our beloved diplomats… and my son." He paused, as if the weight of his words pained him. "This is not a decision made out of fear, but out of wisdom. We cannot allow this crisis to escalate further. Human life is sacred—more valuable than any sum of money. And so, we will meet their demands. Money is cheap. But the lives of our people? Those are priceless."
Omar's fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair, his jaw clenching as he watched the broadcast. The president's words were polished, rehearsed meant to paint him as the compassionate leader, the reluctant negotiator who chose peace over violence. But Omar knew better.
Of course he's playing the hero now, Omar thought, his lips curling in disgust. After weeks of failed raids, after turning the country upside down like a madman searching for loose change. The military had swept through neighborhoods like a storm, kicking down doors in the dead of night, dragging innocent people from their beds for interrogation. Old men had been shoved against walls, children screamed as soldiers overturned furniture, searching for rebels who were never there. Hundreds had been arrested—some released days later, bruised and silent, others still rotting in cells on nothing but suspicion.
And now? Now, when brute force had failed, when the president's own son remained missing despite every ruthless tactic, he stood before the cameras and pretended this was about mercy. About valuing life.
Omar exhaled sharply, turning his gaze away from the screen. The hypocrisy was suffocating. The president hadn't chosen negotiation he'd been forced into it. His pride had cost the country dearly, and now he was spinning his defeat into virtue.
Outside, the city carried on, oblivious to the truth. But Omar knew. And that knowledge settled in his chest like a stone.
Omar stepped out of the company building, the evening air thick with the scent of exhaust and the distant hum of the city winding down. The weight of the day's frustrations still clung to him—another shift spent watching, waiting, gathering useless information on a man who seemed to do nothing but attend meetings and sip coffee. Abo bilal expected results, but so far, he had nothing of value to report.
He needed a lead, something—anything—to move his assignment forward. And there was only one person he trusted to point him in the right direction.
A short cab ride later, he arrived at a quiet tea place tucked away in the older part of the city. The place was nearly empty at this hour, save for a few patrons lingering over late-night tea. In the back corner, shrouded in shadow, sat Abo Bilal.
Omar slid into the seat across from him without a word. Abo Bilal didn't look up from his newspaper, his thick fingers turning the page with deliberate slowness. After a moment, he finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly.
"You're wasting your time watching that man the way you are," he said, folding the paper and setting it aside. His dark eyes flicked up, sharp and knowing. "You'll never get close to him like this."
Omar leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Then how do I do it?"
Abo Bilal smirked, the lines around his mouth deepening. He reached for his tea, took a slow sip, then set the glass down with a quiet clink.
"I'm going to introduce you to someone,"he said. "Someone who can get you where you need to be."
Omar's pulse quickened. This was what he'd been waiting for—a real in. "Who?"
Abo Bilal chuckled, shaking his head. "Patience. You'll meet them soon enough. Just be ready."
He pushed a small slip of paper across the table—an address, scrawled in hurried handwriting. Omar pocketed it without looking. Whatever came next, he'd be ready.
Because finally, things were moving.