CHAPTER 1: HELL.

** Endurance is born when determination walks hand in hand with surrender; the long-distance runner bends to the wind, yet never loses sight of the horizon. **

..Nur Afiya- Nine Years Ago..

___.

He didn't know this moment; simple, forgettable, would be the last time he'd ever look at them without pain.

Eighteen-year old Jamal trailed three steps behind Jamila and Almeida, Qur'an bag thudding softly at his side. Just another evening after madrasa. The call to Maghrib (evening prayer) had passed. The sun dipped low behind the mosque domes, laying burnt gold across the dusty road.

Hafiz Zubair's voice still echoed in his head:

"When Truth dies, corruption spreads. And the men who allow it? Allah is watching."

The street smelled of jasmine, suya smoke, and something else: an unease that curled at the back of his neck.

A Warning, if you could perceive the soul.

Jamal adjusted his bag and glanced at the two of them. Sisters. Girls he trusted. Girls he would've fought for.

He didn't know.

He couldn't have known, that as the sky above Nur Afiya turned a deeper amber, the night ahead... would change everything.

Jamila scoffed. "Next time we close this late, I'm growing wings instead."

Jamal smiled faintly. "Or grow patience instead."

"Jamal and his sermons," Almeida muttered, making the final turn toward her street. "Always on beat."

The road ahead shimmered in twilight; violet stretching into gold. A boy chased a tire. An elderly woman grilled maize near the junction. The air tasted like memory. Almeida pushed open the compound gate and entered, Jamila held the gate wide, turning to Jamal. "You're coming in, right?"

Jamal hesitated.

"Just got a new movie, been long you stayed for a movie." Jamila added with a smirk.

The pause wasn't shyness. It was instinct. Learned early. Home had never been a place that invited peace. His father had vanished before he ever learned to shave. His mother; buried five years ago. His sister, now someone else's responsibility. Married off to the North. Fawas, his closest brother by spirit, lives in a house ruled by a man too wild to visit more than once a month. Aside his uncle where he normally pass the night, this was what was left. A house full of noise and women. A soft chaos. A home that wasn't his, but didn't push him out either. They are the closest to a family.

"You're coming in.." Almeida said again, with a tone that left no room for protest. "My mom made Tuwo and Miyan taushe before she left. You don't say no to that."

Jamal smiled and blinked twice. "You had me at tuwo."

She grinned and turned toward the door. He stepped in behind her and the gate closed gently.

Inside, the house breathed warmth. The scent of puff-puff hung in the air, mingling with jasmine from the open window. Light from the chandelier spilled gold across linen.

Mariyah, Almeida's elder sister, sat cross-legged on the rug, munching puff-puffs off a napkin. "You people took forever. I finished a whole documentary waiting."

"You could've boiled water," Almeida said, heading to the kitchen.

"I could've," Mariyah replied, mouthful. "But I didn't."

Jamal slid off his sandals and sank into the couch's corner. His usual corner. Familiar. Quiet. Safe.

A few minutes later, Almeida returned with a tray: puff-puff, chin-chin, tea. But something else had changed.

Gone was the loose abaya from madrasa. She now wore a grey sleeveless top and black bum shorts. Her scarf was gone. Hair tied up, tendrils falling in whispers.

Jamal blinked. Not because he hadn't seen girls wear such. But because this was Almeida. And it felt… deliberate.

Still, it was her house.

She passed him a mug, and her fingers lingered than usual, thumb grazing his knuckle.

He felt it.

Not just the touch, but a shift. "Jazakillah," he murmured, avoiding her gaze. She smiled, settling beside him.

"That's your third puff-puff since we came in, Mariyah, I wonder how much you've eaten before we arrived." Jamila teased from the rug.

Mariyah mumbled something, puff-puff stuffed in her cheek.

The lights dimmed, jazz oozing from the speakers as the movie flickered on; soft kisses, hands roaming, moans.

Jamal's gut twisted. This wasn't their usual. This was raw, more intimate. He wasn't watching the screen now. He was watching the silence thicken.

"You're quiet," Almeida whispered, her thigh brushing his, deliberate. "Cat got your tongue?"

"I stay quiet when temptation talks," Jamal muttered.

"Then let me give you a voice," she teased, pressing closer.

"I shouldn't be here," he murmured, and adjusted to the other end, voice tight.

Almeida snapped. "Scared I'll bite?"

"Wallahi, the cloth you're putting on tells you can" he shot back, resting deeper into the other end.

"He's turtling again." Jamila snickered from where she'd been sitting quietly.

"What turtling?" Jamal asked raising his brow.

Jamila smiled "One flirt and you're back in your shell."

Mariyah smirked. "He thinks this is Potiphar's house."

Almeida leaned in, breath grazing his ear.

"This isn't flirting, and Almeida knows what she's doing." Jamal snapped.

"And what's that?" she asked, half-smiling.

"Striking matches in a room soaked with gasoline."

Her smile faltered.

"Even Yusuf felt the pull. But Yusuf ran," Jamal added.

"And you think running makes you stronger?" she asked softly.

"No," he said. "It keeps you from breaking."

Almeida eased back, eyes searching his face. "Next time, maybe you'll understand better."

He didn't smile this time. "Maybe," he said, then paused, gaze lowered for a breath. "But I made a promise to Allah… I won't climb a woman I don't intend to marry."

Silence gathered, thick as dusk.

"I don't see you like that Almeida," he added gently. "None of you. You're all beautiful no doubt. but protecting our sacredness.. that has the most benefits from Allah." He concluded and turned to the screen, his thoughts burning.

He tried to laugh. But the air had changed.

The movie went on. More kisses.

"This kind of movie makes you forget your mother's voice," Jamal whispered to himself.

Almeida leaned in again, elbow grazing him. "Don't act like it's killing you."

"No, it's not. It's distracting. I'm used to scenes with more laughter scenes,"

"Not this" he pointed at the screen.

"Let's not lie," Jamila added "you came for tuwo."

Jamal smiled. "Exactly Jamila. Let's stick to that mission."

"Tuwo's after the movie," Almeida said.

"Hooking me with food now?"Jamal quipped.

"And romance," Mariyah added and smiled. "Deadly combo."

He leaned back into the couch, "Just know that Allah dislikes deceit."

An hour and thirteen minutes passed. The movie ended. Jazz hummed low.

Almeida stood, "I'll get the tuwo now." she whispered and turned towards the kitchen.

"BarakAllahu," Jamal muttered.

Mariyah checked her phone and stepped out. "Be back soon."

Now it was just Jamal and Jamila in the parlor. Then Jamila stood. "Let me check on Almeida."

"Alright," he said. "Tell her to hurry. The worms are already preaching. Might as well stay a bit and say hi to your mom."

"Okay… be right back," she replied, making for the door.

He smiled and let out a deep sigh. The ache from that damned movie had already planted something restless in him. The soft erotic scenes, the word exchanges during the movie, the silence now swallowing the house, everything felt like a trap disguised as comfort, but he was too tired to fight suspicion. Moreover, he's only here for the food.

And like a man lulled by warmth and weariness, he drifted. Not asleep. Not awake. Somewhere in between.

Eyes shut.

Mind cloudy.

Chest rising and falling like waves against a stone shore.

The scent of puff-puff still lingered in the air, faint and cloying. The jazz on the television had faded into silence, the screen now dimmed to a restless flicker. Outside, the soft hum of life beyond the window had dulled, Maghrib had long passed, and the night had deepened into that strange in-between hour where shadows stretch longer than they should.

Jamal stirred.

Something felt... off.

Not the air.

Not the light.

A pressure. A presence.

Fingers moving silently inside his underwear.

Cold.

Soft.

Unmistakably deliberate.

His breath caught, his eyes flung open. And time stalled.

Almeida bent over him, half-unclothed, her grey sleeveless peeled off one shoulder, now drooping low enough to bare more than it concealed. Her thighs pressed against the edge of the couch, and her other hand held something sacred.

His prayer beads.

Dangling loosely from her fingers like decoration. The same tasbih he'd worn like armor, now stripped from his neck.

His voice cracked. "Almeida… what are you doing..?"

She didn't answer immediately. She removed her hand slowly.

Her gaze wasn't wild, It was intentional. Composed. Controlled.

Her lips parted slightly, her chest rising with slow, deliberate breath. "You're awake," she whispered, leaning in closer as Her knee brushed his thigh.

His heart thundered in his chest. Not lust. Not even fear.

Panic.

The kind that came when something once familiar turned into a stranger right before your eyes.

"Stop this Almeida. This is haram" he retorted. But Her eyes didn't waver. ".Why do you always pretend?" she asked, her voice low and smooth. "You want this. You've always wanted it."

He sat up abruptly, backing into the armrest, his voice rising. Not yet a shout, but loud enough to betray the tremor beneath it. "No. Don't twist this. You don't get to rewrite me into your fantasy."

She laughed; soft, bitter. "Fantasy? You say fantasy?" Then leaned closer. "You play pure Jamal, but you're just afraid."

"Afraid of Allah, Yes." he snapped. His body shook now, every nerve awake. "Almeida, I came here for food, not… this madness."

She tilted her head, smiling faintly. "But this is food enough, why are you shaking"

"Because this is wrong! Almeida." He hissed. "I thought I could trust you."

"You don't want it?" she whispered, leaning closer.

He stood up abruptly, heart pounding. "This is madness Almeida. Fear Allah, this isn't.."

"..If you don't want it," she said quietly, "I'll scream. I'll tell them you forced me."

Jamal blinked. "What!? Me?"

"Don't act like you don't understand how this works," she said, voice low, cruelly calm. "You're older. You're a man. You stayed late. Who do you think they'll believe?"

The room blurred and He felt heat crawl up his spine. Shame, fear, the sting of betrayal.

Almeida tried to approach again, More confident, more... rehearsed. He flinched away, heart in his throat.

"I said stop Almeida. Hand over my Tasbih please, I need to leave.

"Jamila!!" Almeida shouted, Her voice cracking against the room wall. Jamal froze. "Almeida, what are you doing?! Don't do that. Don't twist this event!" Just then, the door swung open.

Mariyah's eyes scanned the room first. Then Jamila appeared behind her, confusion drawing thin lines across her brow.

"What's going on?" Mariyah asked stepping in.

Jamal stepped back in relief, hope clawing its way to the surface. "Please come to my rescue." he said, voice shaking, "It's Almeida, I don't think she's herself anymore?!"

But Almeida stood calm. Composed. Unbothered. Her sleeveless top gone, her body barely veiled by the bum short.

Mariyah looked between them, and for a moment, Jamal saw something shift in her gaze.

He thought. Maybe this is it. Maybe they'll finally see. Maybe I'm safe.

But instead... Jamila closed the door softly behind her.

Mariyah sighed and walked closer to where Jamal is standing "You're overreacting Jamal. It's not like we're strangers here."

"Overreacting?" His voice cracked as he stepped back. "Is that what this is to you?"

"Don't act like you don't feel things too," Mariyah said, circling the couch. "You're not a robot. Moreover.."

"I'm no Robot?" Jamal cut in. "does that mean i can't make my decisions."

"You stayed." Jamila added. "It's something you'll enjoy also. Don't start pretending now."

Jamal looked between the three of them,

And reality hit him.

This wasn't Almeida's idea alone.

The glances during the movie. The teasing. The strange coordination.

They'd planned this.

Or perhaps, they'd all allowed it.

It was all making sense to him now.

He stepped back, fists clenched. "You invited me for food."

Almeida laughed coldly. "And I offered you.. something better." She pointed to her bare chest, her face daring him. "Isn't this what you really wanted?"

Something inside him broke. No hunger could justify this. No loneliness could excuse it. His soul screamed for escape.

Mariyah's tone shifted; no more flirt, no more teasing. Just ice.

"If you don't want us to scream rape," she said slowly, deliberately, "and spread it through every corner of Nur Afiya that you came here to defile Almeida…" Her eyes flicked down, then back up to meet his, sharp as a blade.

"…then you'll make out with the three of us tonight."

Jamal blinked.

The words didn't register at first. They couldn't be real.

His gaze darted from Mariyah to Jamila to Almeida.

But no one was laughing.

"Really? they must be joking right?" he thought.

Jamal's mouth went dry. His throat tightened as if the air itself had betrayed him too. He looked at Almeida.

He's had her on a pedestal for years. He thought she could do no wrong nor harm, until she shattered that illusion

How did we get here?

Is it because I have no one else to run to?

Or Because they thought I was safe to prey on?

His eyes burned. Not with tears, but with something deeper. Shock. Fury. Heartbreak.

"Ya Allah," he whispered inwardly, fighting for breath.

"Like You saved Yusuf, save me."

His fingers clenched at his side. Legs tense.

He scanned the room.

Then, to the door where Jamila stood like a bouncer from night clubs.

He stared at Almeida; bare, smirking, the stolen tasbih still looped around her wrist like a trophy.

His pulse thundered in his ears. Three of them. All eyes on him. All angles cornered. No food. No exit.

"Alright, Fine." he said finally. Voice stripped of heat. "If this is happening..." He turned, "then let's start with Jamila. Somehow I must still get to decide."

A shift in the room.

Jamila blinked. "Me?"

She glanced at Mariyah, who offered only a shrug.

Almeida laughed softly, running a finger across the stolen prayer beads. "Thought you were the righteous one," she murmured. "Guess all it takes is pressure."

He ignored her.

Jamila approached, slow, intrigued, still playing it like a game. She reached the center of the room.

And Jamal ran. He dashed past her like wind, heart a hammer in his chest, hand swinging the door open with a slam so loud it knocked a decorative plaque from the wall.

"WALLAHI!" Almeida's voice cut behind him. "JAMAL.. COME BACK HERE!"

But he was gone. Gone into the dusk of Nur Afiya, barefoot, breathless, and broken.

Only one thing left behind:

His tasbih.

Still wrapped around her wrist, glowing like a stolen relic.