The fire crackled faintly as the night pressed in around the girls. After Habiba's story, silence settled like dust over their shoulders. But Amina couldn't rest. Her breath was shallow, her fingers digging into her robe. She didn't want to speak, but the words burned in her throat like swallowed ash.
"There's someone here," she said finally, her voice sharp and cold. "One of them."
Hassana looked over. "What do you mean?"
"One of the men. A fighter. His name is Bilal—at least, that's what they call him."
The girls shifted uncomfortably. They had all learned to be afraid of names—of the way they came with eyes and fists and threats.
Amina's voice grew lower. "He's different from the others. Not kinder. Not softer. But quieter. Calculated. He doesn't scream or curse. He watches. He studies."
She paused, jaw clenched.
"He's taken an interest in me."
Habiba's eyes narrowed. "How?"
Amina stared into the flames. "He leaves food where I sleep. Not leftovers—real food. Better food. He asks questions. Where I'm from. What my father did. If I know how to cook. If I know how to pray—his way."
Her lip curled. "I give him no answers."
Zulai's voice trembled. "Do you know him from before?"
Amina shook her head firmly. "No. He means nothing to me. He is nothing to me. Just another captor with a gun and a twisted sense of power. But the others… they watch how he treats me. And that's dangerous."
The room fell quiet again, the fear thick and heavy in the air.
Hassana's voice was a whisper. "What does he want?"
Amina looked up slowly, eyes blazing with quiet fury.
"He wants obedience. Gratitude. He wants me to think he's better than the rest. That he's a savior. But he isn't."
Her voice sharpened. "He's just another monster who wants to feel like a god."
There was silence. Even the wind seemed to still.
Habiba touched her hand gently. "You are not his. He may feed you, but that doesn't mean he owns you."
"I know," Amina said. "That's why I haven't broken. That's why I don't say a word when he leans close and waits for my thanks. I want him to see that I see through him."
Outside, boots crunched on gravel.
Voices murmured.
Then came the sound of someone approaching—calm, deliberate.
Amina didn't move.
She didn't need to look.
She knew it was him.
She stared into the fire as the shadow lingered at the doorway. Her heart beat like thunder, but her face was stone.
The shadow moved on.
And still, she didn't breathe.
Only when the footsteps faded did she whisper, "One day… I'll burn everything he thinks he owns."
The girls nodded silently. They were all someone's prisoner.
But not forever.
Bilal had been watching Amina for weeks. She was different from the others. While many girls had broken down into silence or tears, Amina remained composed. Her face revealed little, and her voice, when she spoke, was even and clear. It wasn't defiance in the usual sense—it was survival. But to Bilal, it looked like arrogance. And it irritated him.
He had seen her before, taken in during a raid alongside others. Amina, even disheveled and stripped of all comfort, carried herself with a kind of dignity. It unsettled Bilal. He was used to obedience, to fear, to cries. Amina gave him none of it.
At first, he approached her with subtlety. He would leave extra food, offer clean water, small gestures cloaked as kindness. She never thanked him. She never asked for anything. The other fighters noticed and began to whisper.
"You waste your time," one said. "She's not like the others."
Bilal didn't answer, but the words stayed with him.
One evening, as the camp settled and the sky blushed with the last hues of daylight, Bilal sat with Faruq by the fire. They passed a rolled cigarette back and forth, the smoke spiraling lazily into the dusk.
"She looks at me like she's better than me," Bilal muttered.
Faruq scoffed. "They all do, at first. Then they learn."
"I've given her every chance. She won't even look at me."
Faruq leaned closer, his tone shifting. "You're a fool if you think you need permission. She's a slave. You want her? Take her. That's the rule here. Just don't make a mess."
Bilal stared into the fire, Faruq's words curling around his thoughts like smoke. The line between desire and dominance blurred. By the time the embers faded, his mind was made up.
That night, the guards were half-drunk and laughing over a pot of sour meat. No one stopped him as he walked past the sleeping soldiers toward the huts where the girls were kept.
He carried a cloth bundle—mangoes, dried fish, a robe. An offering.
Amina was sitting on the floor of the hut, her back to the wall. She had heard his steps long before he appeared. Her hands tightened in her lap.
He stepped inside and knelt. "I brought you something."
She didn't respond.
He unwrapped the bundle, laying it out like a gift. "You haven't had fruit in days. This is good mango. Sweet."
Still nothing.
He sat closer. "I can make things easier for you. You don't have to live like this. You're special."
She turned her head slowly. Her eyes met his—flat, unwavering. "Get out."
Bilal blinked. "Don't be foolish. I'm trying to help you."
"Help me?" she echoed. "By acting like a man who forgot his soul?"
He reached out. She slapped his hand away.
And then she spit at him.
For a long moment, nothing moved. Then Bilal's face twisted. The mask of gentleness dropped like a stone.
He grabbed her arm. She struggled, kicked, screamed—but the guards outside were far away, their laughter still loud. The other girls in nearby huts stayed silent. They'd seen too much. Fear had taught them stillness.
When it was over, Amina lay curled on the floor. Her robe torn, her body trembling. But her eyes were open, locked on the wooden slats of the ceiling. Her breath was ragged. Her skin burned with bruises.
Bilal stood, adjusting his clothing. He glanced down at her—expecting tears, begging, maybe even hatred. But all he saw was silence.
He turned and left.
The night air was cool, but he felt nothing.
Amina did not move for hours. Her body was broken, but her spirit remained stubbornly alive. She didn't cry. She didn't scream again. Instead, she memorized every detail of that night. Every sound. Every word. The pattern of Bilal's footsteps. The smell of the mangoes.
She knew now there was no safety. Not in submission. Not in silence. The only way out was through.
She crawled to the corner of the hut, sat upright against the wall, and forced herself to breathe.
One. Two. Three.
The next morning, she covered her wounds, washed her face, and joined the others in the kitchens. No one asked what had happened. But Hassana looked at her with knowing eyes.
Later that evening, Hassana slipped beside her near the water pots.
"You're still here," Hassana whispered.
"Yes," Amina said. "And I won't forget."
They didn't speak again that night. But something passed between them—a vow unspoken.
Amina had survived what many did not. Not unscarred, but unshattered.
They had tried to break her.
But she was still whole.
Still dangerous.
And one day, she would make them regret underestimating her.