The two revolutionist stumbled through the rain-slicked alley, their breaths ragged, their bodies aching from gunshot wounds and the relentless pursuit. The taller one, a middle aged man with sharp features and a bloodied sleeve, gripped his companion's shoulder as they ducked behind a stack of crumbling crates. The younger one—a young man with wild, dark hair—winced as he pressed a hand to his shoulder, his fingers coming away slick with blood.
"We can't keep running like this," he hissed.
Before his friend could respond, the creak of a shopping cart made them freeze. An elderly woman, her silver hair tucked beneath a faded shawl, paused at the mouth of the alley. Her sharp eyes locked onto them, widening slightly as she took in their injuries, their desperate posture.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then, without a word, the woman turned her cart around and walked away.
They exchanged a glance. Had she gone to alert the authorities?
But minutes later, she returned—alone. This time, she carried a small first-aid kit and a bundle of clean cloth.
"Young ones," she said softly, her voice steady despite the danger, "come with me. Quickly."
They hesitated. "We don't want to bring trouble to you."
The old woman shook her head. "Trouble already found you. Now, let's get you inside before it finds you again."
Without another word, she turned, expecting them to follow. The younger revolutionary met his companion's gaze and they nodded. They had little choice.
The elderly couple's home was small but warm, the scent of herbs and bread lingering in the air. The old man, his hands gnarled with age, stood from his chair as they entered but said nothing. His wife simply gestured to the kitchen table.
"Sit. Let me see those wounds."
The younger man obeyed first, peeling back his jacket to reveal the gunshot graze at his shoulder. The old woman clucked her tongue but worked efficiently, cleaning and bandaging the injury with practiced hands.
"You're lucky it wasn't worse," she murmured.
The older one watched them, then turned to the old husband. "You don't even know who we are."
The old man shrugged. "Does it matter? You're hurt. She helps. That's how it's always been."
A silence settled over the room, broken only by the hiss of the kettle as the wife put it on the stove.
"You should rest," she said finally. "At least until the worst of it passes."
The two men exchanged another glance. They knew they couldn't stay long—their pursuers would never stop searching. But for now, in this quiet house with these kind strangers, they allowed themselves a moment of respite.
"Thank you," the younger one whispered.
The old woman only smiled and handed him a cup of tea. "Drink. It will help with the pain."
Outside, the storm raged on. But inside, for the first time in days, they felt something like safety.
The city was tense, crawling with soldiers. Checkpoints at every corner, patrols marching through the streets, and posters plastered on every wall—Wanted: Information on Revolutionary Activity. Reward: 50,000$.
Yet, despite the military's iron grip, the revolutionaries remained ghosts.
General Maddah slammed his fist onto the war room table, making the junior officers flinch.
"Nothing? Nothing?!" he snarled. "We've turned this city upside down, and still, these rats slip through our fingers!"
A nervous captain cleared his throat. "Sir, we've had a few leads—"
"Leads?" Maddah's voice dripped with contempt. "You mean those fools who turned in their own neighbors just to pocket the reward? Half of them couldn't tell a revolutionist from a street beggar!"
Across the city, in a dimly lit basement, Abo Bilal paced back and forth. His two best fighters—the ones who had been among the team that went after the president were still missing. No word, no bodies. Just silence.
His second-in-command, a wiry man named Ameen, watched him carefully. "I'm sure we will find them, I believe they are still alive...they can't be dead, right?."
Abo Bilal stopped pacing, his eyes blank, his fist tightening. "No. Not them. They're too smart for that."
Ameen hesitated. " Do you think they were captured? If the military has them—"
"Then we'd know," Bilal cut in. "Maddah would be parading them on state TV by now."
Abo Bilal turned back to the map on the wall, his fingers tracing the last known location of his missing fighters. "We must find them. Before the military does."
---
Meanwhile, in the streets, the hunt continued. A scrawny money dog, his eyes darting like a rat's, tugged at a soldier's sleeve.
"I know where one of them is hiding!" he whispered eagerly. "you'll pay me first, right?"
The soldier sighed. This was the fifth "lead" today.
"Show us," he grunted. "Then we'll talk about money."
But like all the others, it led to nothing—just another desperate soul trying to scrape by in a city where trust was dead and survival was the only currency.
General Maddah stared out his window, watching the searchlights sweep over the rooftops. Somewhere out there, the revolutionaries were laughing at him.
And that thought burned worse than any defeat.
______
The dim glow of the oil lamp flickered across the worn wooden table as the elderly woman pressed a damp cloth to the younger revolutionist fevered brow. His face was pale, sweat beading along his hairline, and his left shoulder—wrapped in a makeshift bandage—had darkened to an ugly shade of purple.
"It's getting worse," the old woman murmured, her wrinkled hands gentle but firm. "The wound is rotting."
The older revolutionist, a man with sharp eyes clenched his fists. "I'll go find a doctor."
The elderly man, who had been silently watching from the corner, shook his head. "No, son. Soldiers are crawling the streets like ants. If they catch you, they'll kill you—and anyone who helped you." He reached for his coat, his movements slow but deliberate. "I'll go."
The younger revolutionary groaned, his voice weak. "You can't… risk yourself for us."
The old man chuckled dryly. "At my age, risk is all I have left." He turned to his wife. "I'll tell them it's for my old wife, for her back pain, no one will suspect anything." His wife nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Be careful."
The older revolutionist stepped forward. "What if the doctor refuses to treat him when he comes? Or worse, what if he turns you in?"
The old man paused at the door, his hand on the knob. "Doctor Naser is a good man. He's treated half the neighborhood, no questions asked." He glanced back, his gaze steady. "Besides, who would suspect an old fool like me?"
With that, he slipped into the night, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence settled over the room, heavy with tension. The younger revolutionist gritted his teeth as another wave of pain shot through him.
The old woman wrung out the cloth in a basin of water. "You two must have done something big," she said quietly, "for the whole city to be hunting you."
The older revolutionist exhaled sharply. "Or just stubborn enough not to die quietly."
A faint, pained smile tugged at the younger man's lips. "Let's hope… the doctor agrees."
Outside, the distant echo of patrol boots on cobblestones reminded them that time was running out.