Evan's fingers trembled as they wrapped around the steering wheel. He drove, faster than the wind could keep up. The downtown roads blurred past him, but the storm inside him roared louder than the engine. Their small apartment was only fifteen minutes from his office—yet every step felt like a lifetime. They couldn't live inside the cantonment anymore. Not in that cursed place where his father had been betrayed and murdered by the very country he served. Where the scent of blood and lies still floated in the air.
As he reached the apartment building, the front door was wide open. His hands turned cold. His legs froze for a moment.
No… not again. That same dreadful feeling crawled up his spine.
Not her. Not Mom. She was the only one he had left.
He kicked off his shoes and stepped inside. The house was too quiet.
His mother sat on the couch, her shoulders shaking, hands covering her face. She was all alone, drowning in grief.
It wasn't the first time Evan had seen her like this. But every time, it broke him all over again.
He dropped to his knees in front of her. "Mom…" he whispered, voice trembling.
She slowly lowered her hands. Her eyes were red. Empty. Evan took her hands into his grip. That scared, broken little boy had grown into a man—tall, sharp, steady. But right now, he felt like a child again, begging for answers.
"Mom, who were they?" His voice cracked. "No more secrets. No more silence. If you keep hiding the truth from me, I'll never be able to get justice for Baba."
She looked away, eyes full of pain.
"I know you've known something… ever since that night. You've carried it alone for too long. But it's time now. The dictator's gone. We have a chance. For once… please."
His hands were shaking. Words spilled from him, fast and desperate.
"I can't do this if you keep pushing me away. I know you're scared, but I'm not a child anymore. I'm my Baba's son. I won't bow. I won't break. I won't let anything happen to you or me. So please… tell me. Who were they? Why do they keep coming to you? Why do you stop me every time I get close?"
For a long moment, Mrs. Baydoun sat like a stone. Then finally, in a hollow voice, she whispered—
"They won't spare us. So don't go too close to the secret you're chasing."
"Why? Why even now?" Evan asked, his voice rising. "Look around! We're free now. The people are celebrating in the streets. We fought for this."
She turned her face toward him, and he saw something in her eyes. Not just fear—something heavier. Grief. Guilt. Surrender.
"We're not like them," she said. "We're not citizens like them, Evan. The men who murdered your father... they're still out there. They're not like the dictator who ran. They're shadows. Monsters in uniform. They won't flee. They'll burn everything we love. You have no idea what they are capable of."
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she spoke, but her voice didn't shake. It was too tired for that.
"That's why I'm begging you," Evan replied, his voice breaking. "Tell me what you know. Please, Mom. For once—trust me. Like you trusted dad. I'm not just his son. I'm his legacy. I have his blood. His pride. His strength. Just give me a chance to find the truth."
His mother looked up slowly. Her face was pale, her expression frozen.
"And then what?" she asked. "What will you do once you know? Will you kill them? No it's more like, can you?"
Her words pierced him like knives.
"I'm being cruel because I love you. I want you safe. I want you alive. Forget the past. Get married. Live. Laugh. Stay in front of my eyes. Don't vanish like he did…"
Evan stood up, silently. His six-foot-two frame stood tall like a wall of storm clouds.
His voice turned cold.
"Fine. Stay here. Keep the door open for them. Let them threaten you again and again. But don't call me when they do. Tell them I didn't listen. Tell them I'm done playing along."
By saying it he turned around and stormed out of the house, without looking back.
___________
Outside, the wind brushed against his face like the ghost of a war long buried. He slipped into the driver's seat, but didn't start the engine. He sat still, gripping the wheel. His breathing slowed. His eyes ahead, but mind far away. Just like his father used to, When something troubled him.
He wasn't just his father's son in name. Surely, Evan had grown into the mirror of his father—whether it was the chiseled jawline, the quiet composure under pressure, or the way he carried pain like armor.
Those who had once saluted or stood beside Colonel Baydoun often said the same thing:
"He's his father's son—through and through."
But there was one thing that set him apart.
The eyes.
Hazel, not his father's deep brown, but a rare legacy from his grandmother. Those eyes gave him a quiet kind of pride, like a king who never needed to roar. But some saw something else: they said his eyes belonged to a wolf—An Arctic Wolf— cold and calculated.
After eleven long minutes, long enough to make a man confused, the engine finally roared. The tires rolled.
The car turned left down the front road. And just as he passed the edge of the block, Evan glanced toward his right side mirror.
A man on a black R15, wearing a black helmet enough to cover his whole face following him, Keeping the same distance. Same lane. Same rhythm.
Just as Evan expected.