The fluorescent lights of the hospital flickered as Hasan finished updating a patient's chart. Just then, an elderly man shuffled through the entrance, his wrinkled face etched with worry. He approached the reception desk, his voice trembling as he spoke.
"Is Doctor Yousef here?"the old man asked, his eyes searching the receptionist's face for hope.
The receptionist shook her head apologetically. "I'm sorry, Doctor Yousef just left for the day. He's not in the hospital right now."
The old man's shoulders slumped, disappointment clouding his expression. Without another word, he turned and began walking away.
Hasan frowned, a pang of concern hitting him. He hurried after the man, catching up to him near the exit. "Sir, wait—are you sick? There are other doctors who can help you."
The old man paused, shaking his head. "It's not me," he said quietly. "It's my wife. She's very ill at home. Doctor Yousef knows her condition… I don't trust anyone else."
Hasan hesitated for a moment before making a decision. "My shift is almost over," he said. "If you can wait just a little longer, I'll come with you and see what I can do to help."
Relief flickered in the old man's eyes. "You would do that?"
Hasan nodded. "Of course. Just give me a few minutes to wrap things up."
The old man agreed, and Hasan hurried back inside, his mind already shifting to what supplies he might need. The hospital's usual bustle faded into the background as he focused on the task ahead—helping a stranger in need.
The dim glow of security monitors cast flickering shadows across the room as General Maddah's men scoured through hours of footage, their fingers pausing only to zoom in on suspicious figures. The air was thick with tension, the hum of electronics blending with the low murmurs of soldiers exchanging updates.
Then, a sharp ring cut through the noise. One of the men grabbed his radio. "General, we've got something," the voice on the other end crackled.
General Maddah snatched the radio, his grip tightening. "Speak."
"A security camera near the old market caught two men matching the descriptions of the revolutionists. They entered a residential neighborhood—Al-Nasr District. If we move fast, we might corner them."
A cold smile crept across the General's face. "Good. Assemble the units. We're sweeping every house in that neighborhood." He paused, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "And I want them alive. They have information we need."
One of his lieutenants stepped forward, hesitating. "General, searching house by house will take time. If they hear us coming—"
Maddah cut him off with a sharp glare. "Then we move quietly and quickly. No mistakes. If anyone resists, detain them. But those two revolutionists—bring them alive, we need to interrogate them."
The soldiers exchanged glances before nodding in unison. Within minutes, armored vehicles rumbled toward Al-Nasr District, their headlights cutting through the night like blades. Doors were kicked in, voices shouted orders, and frightened civilians were pulled from their homes as the hunt began.
The air outside grew heavy with tension—shouted orders, the rumble of engines, and the distant thud of boots on pavement. The older revolutionist, his senses sharpened by years of evasion, froze mid-step. His eyes darted toward the end of the alley, where shadows flickered under the harsh glow of military flashlights.
"They're here," he muttered under his breath.
Without wasting a second, he slipped back into the old couple's house, shutting the door silently behind him. Inside, his younger comrade lay on the couch, face pale with pain, his bandaged leg stained with fresh blood. The old woman hovered nearby, wringing her hands.
"We have to go. Now," the older man said, his voice low but urgent.
The injured revolutionist gritted his teeth, trying to push himself up. "What's happening?"
"Maddah's men. They're sweeping the neighborhood. House by house."
The old woman gasped. "You can't leave! Not like this!" She gestured to the wounded man. "He can barely stand—how will he run?"
The older man clenched his jaw, glancing at his friend's leg. "If we stay, we're dead. Or worse—captured."
The younger one groaned, gripping the arm of the couch. "Then go without me. I'll just slow you down."
"Not an option," the older man snapped. He turned to the old woman. "Is there another way out? A back alley? A cellar?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "There's a storage room beneath the house—the door is from the kitchen, you can hide there, the door is already covered with dust and an old curtain but what if they find you?"
"It's our only chance," the older man said. He grabbed his friend's arm, hauling him up despite his pained hiss. "We need to move. Quickly."
Outside, the shouts grew louder. A fist pounded on a nearby door. The old woman hurried to show them the way to the kitchen, revealing an old stairs that leads to the dark room just as the younger revolutionist stumbled, his leg buckling.
"Hurry!" the older man urged, half-dragging him toward the hiding spot.
The younger one's breath came in ragged gasps. "Ameen If they find us here… the old couple—"
"We'll deal with that if it happens, Don't worry Ma'mon" the older man cut in. "Right now, we disappear."
As the trapdoor closed above them, muffling the world outside, the distant bark of a soldier's voice echoed through the walls. "Search every house, don't let anyone in or out of the area."
When Hasan and the old man arrived the streets of the neighborhood were in chaos—doors splintered open, families shoved against walls as soldiers barked orders. Hasan and the old man quickened their pace, weaving through the turmoil, until a sharp voice cut through the noise.
"You! Stop!" A soldier stepped in front of them, rifle slung over his shoulder. "Where are you going?"
Hasan felt the old man tremble beside him, he opened his mouth to talk but kept shaking and nothing came out, Hasan knew he had to act quick, he had to protect the old man who looked scared for some reason, so he stepped forward, voice steady. "His wife is very sick. We need to get to her quickly—she needs medical help."
The soldier's eyes narrowed. He turned to the old man. "Is that true?"
The old man swallowed hard, nodding. "Yes, sir. My wife… she's been suffering for days. Please, we must go to her."
The soldier hesitated, then jerked his chin forward. "Fine. I'll go with you. That way, no one else would stops you."
The old man's breath hitched, but he nodded again, forcing his legs to move. As they neared the house, the old man turned to the soldier, forcing a weak smile. "Thank you, sir. This is our home. You can return to your duties now."
The soldier scoffed. "Not a chance. I need to search the place."
"But—there's no one inside except my wife!" the old man protested, voice cracking.
"Rules are rules," the soldier said, already stepping toward the door.
Just then, the old woman staggered out, clutching her chest. "Abo Ahmed… did you bring the doctor?" Her voice was a strained whisper. "I can't—I can't bear the pain anymore—"
Then, with a gasp, she crumpled to the ground.
"Om Ahmed !" the old man cried, rushing to her side. Hasan was already kneeling beside her, checking her pulse with practiced urgency.
The soldier hesitated, watching as the old woman groaned weakly.
"Sir, please,".Hasan said sharply. "If we don't act now, she could die. Let me do my job."
For a tense moment, the soldier stood frozen. Then, with a grunt, he stepped back. "Fine. But we're not done here." He pointed at the old man. "You—I'll be back to ask you more questions."
As the soldier strode away, the old woman's breathing steadied. The old man helped her up, his hands still shaking.
Hasan exhaled slowly. "That was too close. I've never seen such great acting."
The old woman squeezed his arm, her voice barely a whisper. "Come inside. Quickly."
They hurried into the house, shutting the door behind them—just as another wave of shouts erupted outside.
The storage room was pitch black, the air thick with dust and the metallic scent of blood. Ameen crouched beside Ma'mon, whose labored breaths came in shallow gasps. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his face twisted in pain as he clutched his wounded side.
"Hang on, brother," Ameen whispered, frantically searching the cramped space. His hands groped in the darkness—old jars, burlap sacks, broken tools—but nothing to ease Ma'mon's suffering.
"It's... no use," Ma'mon gritted out. "Just... go. Before they find us both."
"Shut up," Ameen snapped, though his voice wavered. "I'm not leaving you."
Suddenly, a sliver of light cut through the darkness as the door creaked open. Ameen tensed, his hand flying to the knife at his belt. He braced for the muzzle of a rifle, the bark of a soldier's order—
Instead, a quiet, angelic voice spoke.
"It's alright. I'm here to help."
A man stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway light. He wore a nurse's uniform, his dark eyes calm but urgent. In his hands, he carried a small medical kit.
Ameen didn't lower his weapon. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"I'm Hasan—the medic," he said, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind him. "The old couple told me you were hiding here." he knelt beside Ma'mon without hesitation, already pulling out antiseptic and bandages. "This wound is infected. You're lucky I came when I did."
Ma'mon let out a weak, pained laugh. "A medic came to our rescue in this dark hole while the soldiers are rambling outside! Either I'm hallucinating or you're an angel sent by Allah."
Hasan giggled and said "I don't blame you for mistaking me for an angel, but I swear to you I'm a human."
He turned to Ameen. "Hold this light for me—and pray the soldiers don't decide to come back to this house."
Ameen exhaled, finally lowering his knife. For the first time in hours, something like hope flickered in his chest.
Outside, the distant shouts of soldiers continued. But in that tiny, hidden room, there was only the steady hands of a stranger—and the quiet, desperate gratitude of two men who had run out of miracles.