Abo Bilal sat on the worn-out couch, his sharp eyes fixed on the flickering television screen. Beside him, Abo Othman leaned forward, his fingers steepled in quiet contemplation. The sound of the old TV filled the room as the news reporter spoke with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"The peace treaty with North Yahoza marks a historic moment for our nation,"the Prime Minister declared, his chest puffed with pride. "After twenty long years of war, our government has finally brought peace. And now, with our new economic partnerships, prosperity is within reach!"
Abo Othman scoffed, shaking his head. "Lies," he muttered.*"They sell our country piece by piece and call it prosperity."
Bilal remained silent for a moment, then turned to Othman. "Your men—are they ready?"
Othman nodded. "The tunnels are prepared. I've chosen the best fighters, the wisest among us, to move tomorrow. But…" He hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Our weapons are scarce. If things go wrong—"
"Inshallah, they won't," Bilal interrupted, his voice steady. "It's not about how many weapons we have. It's about how we use them."
On the screen, the reporter pressed the Prime Minister. "Your Excellency, can you tell us more about this new deal with North Yahoza? What does it entail?"
The Prime Minister waved a dismissive hand, his smile never faltering. "Ah, details will come in due time! For now, let me speak of my own efforts—how I personally negotiated—"
Bilal reached for the remote and turned off the TV, the room plunging into heavy silence.
"Tomorrow," he said, his voice low but firm, "we remind them what true sacrifice looks like."
Othman exhaled slowly, then gave a grim nod. "Tomorrow, the revolution begins."
The room was quiet except for the faint buzz of the old television, now turned off, its screen dark. Abo Bilal remained seated, his mind filled with the details of what was to come. Abo Othman stood by the door, his hand resting on the knob, but before leaving, he turned back with a faint smirk.
"One more thing," Abo Othman said, his voice low but triumphant. "Hussein did it. He hacked the President's phone."
Bilal's eyes sharpened. "You're sure?"
"Completely,"Abo Othman confirmed. "From this moment on, we'll know his exact location. Every move he makes, we'll see it. When the time comes, he won't slip away."
A grim satisfaction settled over Bilal's face. "Good. That makes things easier."
Abo Othman nodded. "Get some rest, brother. A few hours of sleep, at least. Tomorrow… tomorrow will demand everything from us."
Bilal exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "Sleep won't come easy tonight."
"It never does before battle," Abo Othman replied. "But you need to be sharp. Prepare yourself—mentally, spiritually. The moment is almost here."
With that, Abo Othman opened the door, letting in a sliver of dim hallway light before stepping out. The latch clicked shut behind him, leaving Abo Bilal alone with his thoughts—and the knowledge that by this time tomorrow, the fate of their nation could be changed forever.
The night stretched on, silent and heavy, as Abo Bilal knelt on the worn prayer mat, his hands raised in supplication. The dim glow of a single oil lamp flickered against the walls, casting long shadows that seemed to sway with his whispered prayers.
"Ya Allah, grant us strength... grant us courage..." His voice was barely audible, but each word carried the weight of a nation's suffering. "Guide our hands, purify our intentions, and let justice prevail."
He had recited every du'a he knew—for victory, for protection, for steadfastness. But as the hours slipped by, his heart found peace.
A verse from the Qur'an echoed in his mind: "Indeed, Allah does not fail in His promise." He clung to those words, repeating them like an anchor. The President's corruption, the suffering of their people, the blood spilled in vain—it all had to end.
Dawn was approaching. The first faint light would soon break over the city, and with it, the revolution would begin. Bilal lowered his hands, his forehead pressing against the mat one last time.
"Ya Rabb, if this is the path You have decreed for us, then let us walk it with unwavering faith."
He rose slowly, his body weary but his resolve unbroken. The time for prayer had passed. Now, it was time to act.
_______
The sun hung high over the capital, casting a golden glow over the sprawling presidential palace. Banners fluttered in the breeze, emblazoned with the national emblem and slogans of unity and progress. Crowds had gathered outside the gates in cautious curiosity, while state media reporters buzzed with rehearsed enthusiasm.
Inside the grand hall, diplomats in crisp suits mingled with government officials, their polished smiles never slipping. At the center of it all stood the President, his tailored suit gleaming under the chandeliers, his son—ever the loyal heir—at his side. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the unspoken tension of a deal yet undisclosed.
A reporter from the state news channel stepped forward, microphone in hand. "Your Excellency, the people are eager to know—how will this historic agreement benefit our nation?"
The President spread his hands in a practiced gesture of magnanimity. "My friends, today marks a new dawn! For too long, our resources have been trapped by conflict. But now, through this partnership, we open doors to prosperity. By selling some Oil and minerals prosperity will flow freely and so we will have more jobs, investment, and stability!"
Murmurs rippled through the press pool. Another journalist, bolder than the rest, ventured a question. "Yet the exact terms remain confidential. Can you assure the people that their interests are protected?"
The President's smile tightened imperceptibly. "Trust in your government. Every clause has been negotiated with the utmost care. Would I stake my legacy on anything less?"
His son, smooth-faced and eager, leaned into the microphone. "This is not just a deal—it's a bridge to the future. Our rivals become partners. The war is over; now we build!"
At the back of the room, the foreign ambassador nodded, his expression unreadable. Cameras flashed, capturing the handshake that would soon flood television screens—a symbol of peace, or perhaps, surrender.
Outside the palace walls, unseen in the shadows, men with radios and fury in their hearts listened closely. The clock was ticking. The deal sign is about to begin. But so too would the revolution begin.
The grand hall was alive with the murmurs of diplomats and the clicking of cameras as the President reached for the gilded pen, his face fixed in a statesman's smile. The foreign representative stood beside him, holding the treaty with diplomatic solemnity. Reporters leaned in, lenses zooming to capture the historic moment.
"This marks not just an agreement between nations," the President declared, "but the dawn of a new era for our people—"
**BOOM.**
A deafening explosion ripped through the room as an RPG rocket streaked past the President's head—missing by mere centimeters—before slamming into the marble wall behind him. The blast sent a shockwave of fire and debris through the hall, shattering glass, overturning tables, and hurling bodies to the ground. Screams erupted as smoke choked the air.
The President collapsed, his fine suit now dusted with plaster and ash. Around him, security detail scrambled, shouting into radios.
"Sniper! RPG attack! Secure the principals!"
His son, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead, crawled toward him in panic. "Father! Are you hit?!"
The President, dazed but unharmed, clutched his son's arm. "I'm Alive—I'm alive!"His voice was hoarse with shock.
Across the room, the foreign diplomat groaned, his aide frantically checking him for wounds. "We need extraction—now!"
Security forces swarmed the exits, weapons drawn, as panicked officials and journalists scrambled for cover. The once-pristine hall was now a scene of chaos—burning papers, overturned chairs, and the acrid stench of explosives hanging thick in the air.
Outside, distant gunfire crackled. The revolution had begun.
A shaken reporter, crouched behind a toppled camera rig, muttered into his recorder: "The signing ceremony has been attacked—repeat, the President was just targeted—"
But no one was listening. The deal was forgotten. War had returned.
The chaos in the palace was absolute. Smoke curled from the RPG blast as screams and gunfire echoed through the shattered hall. But the real threat had come from within—silent, unseen, emerging like ghosts from the belly of the palace itself.
For months, the revolutionists had dug. Tunnel by tunnel, stone by stone, they had carved their way underground from the slums on the city's outskirts all the way to the palace's foundation. Their entry point? A carefully drilled hole beneath the staff bathrooms, hidden behind pipes and tiles. When the press conference began, they emerged—one by one, dressed in stolen staff uniforms, their weapons concealed, their faces calm.
Now, they struck.
"Go, go! Cut off the east exit!" Abo Bilal barked into his radio as he fired toward a cluster of presidential guards dragging the bleeding President toward a side door. "Don't let them evacuate him!"
Abo Othman and his men, having flanked the diplomats' entourage, moved with brutal efficiency. "Drop your weapons!"Abo Othman snarled, pressing his rifle into the back of the foreign ambassador's head. The man's private guards hesitated—then lowered their guns as revolutionists swarmed them.
"You're making a mistake," the ambassador hissed, his accent thick with fury. "My government will burn this country to the ground for this."
Abo Othman yanked him forward. "Your government already did."
Near the shattered podium, the President's son screamed as a bullet grazed his arm. "Father! They're everywhere!"
A general, his uniform singed from the blast, shoved the President toward a hallway. "This way! We have armored cars in the—"
*BAM.* A single shot from a revolutionist's rifle dropped him mid-sentence.
The President stumbled, his face ashen. "Who are you people?!"
Abo Bilal stepped forward, his weapon trained. "Justice."
The remaining guards raised their hands. The diplomats were on their knees. The revolutionists moved like shadows, securing doors, binding hostages, silencing radios.
Outside, the city would soon hear. The palace had fallen.
And the war—their war—had just begun.