Ayman stepped through the creaking gates of the cemetery, the midday sun casting long, eerie shadows over the weathered tombstones. The air was still, heavy with an odd mix of tranquility and unease. Each step he took crunched against the dry gravel, his gaze scanning the rows of graves, searching for the man who had called him.
As he walked deeper, his eyes caught a figure standing near a grave in the distance. The man was strikingly out of place amidst the somber scenery. He wore a crisp black suit, perfectly tailored to his tall, lean frame. A dark tie hung neatly over a pristine white shirt, and his shoes gleamed as if they had been polished moments ago. His jet-black hair was immaculately combed back, smooth and glossy under the sunlight. His pale skin gave him an almost ethereal quality, as though he belonged to a different world entirely—a world of wealth and power that Ayman had only glimpsed in passing.
Ayman froze for a moment, his heart quickening. What is he doing here? His breath hitched as he realized the man was standing by Karim's grave. A chill crept down his spine, mixing with a growing curiosity and unease. He observed the man from a distance, noting the confidence in his posture, and the way he carried himself with an air of authority. This man… he's nothing like me, nothing like anyone from my neighborhood. He looks like he belongs in one of those villas on the hill.
For a brief moment, Ayman hesitated, unsure of how to approach. Questions swirled in his mind. Why is he here? What does he want from me? Was my mother right to be suspicious? His steps slowed as he rehearsed possible ways to start the conversation, his thoughts darting between returning the money and demanding answers.
Before Ayman could gather his words, the man turned. His piercing gaze met Ayman's, dark eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something unreadable. A smile played at the corner of his lips, disarming yet unnerving. "Ah, finally," the man called out, his voice smooth and commanding. "Come, come. I've been waiting for you."
Ayman's heart skipped. He swallowed hard, forcing his feet to move. As he approached, he felt the weight of the man's presence, as if the air around him had grown heavier. Every detail about the man—his sharp jawline, the faint shadow of stubble on his face, the way he stood with an effortless confidence—only added to the enigma.
When he reached him, the man gestured toward the grave. "Your brother," he said, his tone calm but laced with something Ayman couldn't place. "A good man, from what I hear."
Ayman's throat tightened. He looked down at the grave, the freshly turned earth a painful reminder of his loss. "Why… why are you here?" he managed, his voice cracking slightly.
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied Ayman with an almost clinical precision, as though weighing him, judging him. "Why am I here?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I could ask you the same thing. So do you need my help?"
Ayman clenched his fists, his unease boiling into frustration. "You said you had a job for me," he said, trying to steady his voice. "Why are we meeting here? What is it that you want?"
Mourad tilted his head, his smile widening just a fraction. "Patience, my friend. All will be revealed in time. For now, let's just say… I believe you have potential. And I'm here to help you unlock it."
Ayman's stomach churned. He wanted to demand answers, to push back against the cryptic words, but something about Mourad's presence held him back. This was no ordinary man. This was someone who could change everything—or destroy it all.
Ayman stepped closer to Mourad, his eyes narrowing as he examined the man again. There was something almost unreal about him—the perfectly tailored suit, the confident posture, the calm demeanor amidst the somber setting of the graveyard. Finally, Ayman couldn't hold back the question lingering in his mind.
"Are you sure you're a real person?" Ayman blurted out, glancing around as if expecting the air around Mourad to shimmer or change. "You're not a ghost or something?"
Mourad raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the question. "A ghost?" he repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. Then, a faint smile crept across his lips, though he tried to maintain his composure. "No, I'm not a ghost. What the hell are you talking about?"
Ayman gestured at him, his tone still laced with suspicion. "I mean, look at you. You don't look like anyone from around here. Look at your clothes—this suit, the tie, the polished shoes. You look like you just walked out of some rich wedding or something."
Mourad chuckled softly, unable to suppress his amusement despite his effort to appear serious. "A wedding? No, not quite," he said with a smirk. "But I can see why you'd think that. Let's just say I dress for work. And today, my work brought me here… to talk to you."
Ayman frowned, still unsure of what to make of the man. Before he could speak again, Mourad took a step closer, his expression softening. "Before we get to business," Mourad began, "I need to ask you something. Tell me about Karim. What was he like to you? Why do you think people respected him so much?"
The mention of his brother hit Ayman like a wave. He hesitated, unsure of how to put his feelings into words. "Karim…" he started, his voice low. "He was… a good man. He always did the right thing. He helped people, you know? Whether it was family or strangers, he just… he cared. That's why people respected him. He didn't ask for anything in return; he just wanted to do what was right."
Mourad nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "That's what I've been hearing too," he said. "Stories about his kindness, his integrity. He must've been an exceptional man."
Ayman felt a pang of grief but said nothing. After a moment, Mourad's tone shifted, becoming sharper. "And the money I gave you," he said, looking Ayman directly in the eye. "What did you do with it? Did you help his wife? Did you help your mother, who's worked so hard for you and your brother?"
Ayman tensed. The question caught him off guard, but something about it felt invasive. "I didn't," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was going to… but my mother refused. Karim's wife refused. They said they didn't want it."
Mourad's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression unreadable. Ayman felt a surge of defiance and reached into his pocket, pulling out the envelope. "Here," he said firmly, holding it out to Mourad. "Take it back. We don't need it. My mother said this money… it's not right. She doesn't trust it. And neither do I."
Mourad stared at the envelope for a moment, then back at Ayman. His lips curled into another faint smile, but this one was different—more calculating. "The money," he said slowly, "wasn't just for you. It was for your family. They deserve it, Ayman. Don't waste it on your doubts."
But Ayman shook his head, his grip on the envelope tightening. "No," he said. "We don't want it. My family doesn't want it. Whatever you're offering… we don't need it."
For the first time, Mourad's expression faltered, just for a second. But then, he laughed—a low, quiet laugh that sent a shiver down Ayman's spine. "You're an interesting one," Mourad said, his voice calm but with an edge that hinted at something deeper. "Fine. Keep your doubts, for now. But you'll see, Ayman. You'll see that the world doesn't work the way you think it does."
Ayman stood frozen, the envelope still outstretched, as Mourad turned back toward Karim's grave.
Ayman tightened his grip on the envelope, his voice firm. "We don't need this money," he said. "And we don't even know why you're helping us. Why would you even care about us?"
Mourad raised an eyebrow and slowly extended his hand. "Alright," he said, taking the envelope back. With a calm, deliberate motion, he opened it and withdrew the money. "Let me explain something, Ayman," he said, splitting the bills into two neat stacks. "This—" he held up one stack—"is 1,000 dinars.
And this—" he raised the other stack—"is another 1,000 dinars. All I wanted was to give one to you and one to your mother. That's the same amount your brother used to bring home every month. I just thought it might help ease the burden a little. Consider it a way to honor him, if nothing else."
Ayman stared at the money, his jaw tightening. "We don't accept money for free," he said, his tone unyielding. "That's not who we are. We're not the type to take handouts, especially from strangers. I didn't earn this money, so I don't deserve it."
Mourad regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "So this is about morality?" he asked, his voice calm but with a slight edge.
Ayman hesitated, searching for the right words. "Not exactly," he said. "But I guess… yeah. Maybe it is. We don't accept things we didn't work for. That's just how we were raised."
Mourad exhaled slowly, shaking his head as he folded the money back into the envelope. "I see, I'm done here then," he said, his tone suddenly cooler. He turned and started walking away, the envelope in his hand.
Ayman blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. "Wait," he called after him, his voice rising in frustration. "What do you mean by that? Why are you walking away like that?"
Mourad paused but didn't turn around. "I'm disappointed," he said simply, his back still to Ayman.
The words hit Ayman like a slap. His frustration turned to anger. "Disappointed? What the hell are you talking about? Why? Hey, hold on!" He jogged a few steps to catch up. "Why are you disappointed? What did I do to you? We just met, and you're already disappointed? You don't even know me! How can you be disappointed?"
Mourad finally stopped and turned to face him, his dark eyes piercing. "I'm not disappointed in what you did," he said evenly. "I'm disappointed in what you think."
Ayman frowned, confused. "What do I think? What do you mean?"
Mourad took a step closer, his voice lowering but losing none of its intensity. "You think you're holding onto morality, don't you? By refusing help, by turning away something that could make your family's life a little easier in such a rough time. But morality isn't about pride, Ayman. It's about survival. And sometimes, surviving means swallowing your pride and doing what's necessary. Your brother understood that."
Ayman's hands balled into fists at his sides. "Don't talk about my brother like you knew him," he said through gritted teeth. "You don't know anything about us."
Mourad's expression softened, but only slightly. "You're right," he said. "I don't know everything. But I know enough. Enough to see that you're making life harder than it needs to be, for yourself and your family. That's what disappoints me."
Ayman froze, his frustration boiling over as Mourad's words pierced through him. "Your brother," Mourad continued, his voice calm but cutting, "was a respected man because he lived his life by morality. He chose the path of righteousness, helping others, and doing good. But look at what that gave him. Look at his life at the end. Was he happy? Do you think he was content with how everything turned out? I don't think so. Look around you—his grave, his debts, his family struggling to survive."
Ayman's jaw tightened, his fists clenching again, but Mourad wasn't finished. He raised his hand, gesturing to the distance. "And then, on the other hand, you have Farid. You know the type—a gangster, a man with no morals, someone who built his life on the suffering of others. No one respects Farid. No one loves him. But do you know what he has? He has power. He has wealth. He's alive, living a life of excess while your brother lies here, six feet under sadly."
Mourad took a step closer, his piercing eyes locked onto Ayman's. "You see, Ayman, your brother had morality, but it cost him everything. Farid has no morality, and yet he has everything. And then there's you."
Ayman blinked, his confusion mixing with anger like he was about to attack Mourad. "What about me?" with eyes burning with rage.
"You," Mourad said, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper, "are stuck in between. You're not like your brother—noble and righteous. And you're not like Farid—cunning and ruthless. You're just... drifting. Stagnant. Stupid kid." Then he screams " And here you are, lecturing me about morality?"
Ayman's chest heaved, his anger bubbling to the surface. "You don't know me," he spat. "You don't know anything about me, so don't act like you do!" then Ayman screams back "Who the fuck are you?"
Mourad cracked a humorless smile, shaking his head. "Oh, but I do, Ayman. I know exactly who you are. You're a boy paralyzed by indecision, clinging to ideals that will only chain you to a life of misery. Your brother lived by the sword, and he died by it. That was his choice. But you? You're a failure because you refuse to choose. You're afraid, Ayman, and that's why you're disappointing."
The words hit Ayman like a slap again, his vision blurring with fury. "I'm not a failure," he hissed, his voice trembling. "You have no right to judge me or my brother."
Mourad leaned in, his expression deadly serious. "I'm not judging you, Ayman. Life is. And if you don't decide who you are soon, life will decide for you." He straightened, smoothing his jacket as he turned away, leaving Ayman seething in a storm of emotions.
Ayman's breathing grew uneven as Mourad's words settled into his mind. "You don't know anything about me," Ayman snapped, his voice cracking with restrained emotion. His hands trembled at his sides, his anger and frustration threatening to bubble over.
Mourad remained calm, almost unnervingly so. He turned back to Ayman then he reached into the envelope, pulled out one pack of 100 dinars, and flicked it between his fingers. "This," he said, holding it up, "is what you think morality is, isn't it?"
Before Ayman could respond, Mourad pulled out a lighter, igniting the bills. The flames quickly devoured it, and Ayman's eyes widened in disbelief. "What are you doing?!" he exclaimed.
Mourad smirked, tossing the burning remnants to the ground. "Burning morality," he said coldly. "Because to me, this—this paper—is meaningless. It's a tool, nothing more. Yet, here you are, placing it on a pedestal, questioning its origin and purpose like it's some sacred relic. Or you may say Halal money right?."
Ayman took a step forward, his voice filled with desperation. "Stop! That's a lot of money! Do you know what that could mean to someone like me?"
Mourad raised a brow, his smirk deepening. "Exactly. To someone like you. But here's the truth: money is just a means to an end. If I offer it to someone else, they'll take it without hesitation, without morality clouding their judgment. But you? You choose to lecture me on morals instead of seizing an opportunity to change your life. And for what? To prove you're better than me?"
Mourad grabbed another 100 bills from the envelope, holding it up as Ayman's hands twitched at his sides. Without a second thought, Mourad set it alight, the flames licking at the paper. "This is what happens when you let morality dictate your choices," Mourad said as he tossed the charred bill aside. "You get nothing."
"Please, stop," Ayman muttered, his voice faltering as he watched the money turn to ash.
Mourad ignored him, his voice turning sharper. "You think you're noble for rejecting this money? That makes you virtuous, does it? No, Ayman. It makes you weak. Money isn't good or evil—it's a tool, a weapon, a shield. It's the way of the world. And the sooner you understand that the sooner you'll stop living in this illusion of morality that your brother clung to."
Mourad turned away for a moment, after burning all 1,000 dinars, letting the silence linger before throwing the rest of the charred money to the ground. Then he reached into the envelope and pulled out the remaining 1,000 dinars.
He held it out to Ayman and gave it to him with the lighter, his expression softening slightly. "If you really want to change your life, take this and listen to me. But understand this: the job I'm offering has no place for morality. It's about survival, power, and money."
Then Mourad explained "If you want the job then burn this 1,000 dinars and if you can't stomach that, then take the money and leave. Walk away, and this will be the last time we ever speak."
Ayman hesitated, staring at the money, his mind racing. "What kind of job?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Mourad smiled, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "A job that will make you question everything you think you know about morality. A job that will force you to choose who you really are. But first, you need to decide: are you ready to leave your illusions behind, or do you want to keep pretending?"
The wind blew softly through the graveyard as Ayman stood frozen, caught between his crumbling beliefs and the temptation of Mourad's offer.