Hasan woke in the suffocating darkness of his solitary cell, every inch of his body screaming in pain. Since they had dragged him in, the beatings had been relentless. After the first interrogation, they had left him broken and bleeding, then thrown him into this concrete cell. They kept the blinding light on for an entire day, denying him sleep, while the relentless grinding of some machine outside his cell tormented his ears. By the time they came for him again, exhaustion clawed at his mind, just as they intended. Weak, disoriented, and desperate for silence, he might finally break and give them what they wanted.
The door screeched open, and rough hands hauled him out.
The detective barked "Give us names!"
Hasan lifted his head weakly, his vision swimming. "I told you... I don't know what you're talking about."
The detective slammed his palm on the metal table, making Hasan flinch. "Stop lying! The rebels assigned you to treat their followers during the protests, you were helping them cause chaos! You want to destroy this nation? Admit it, and maybe I'll go easy on you."
Hasan stared at the man's bloated, red face. He had seen his kind everywhere, police officers, government officials, TV reporters. They all barked like rabid dogs, spewing nonsense with absolute conviction.
He sighed, and the detective seized his collar, shaking him. "Speak, you dog! Answer me! Give me the names of the others!"
"What others?" Hasan rasped, his throat raw.
"The other rebels!"the detective roared.
"I'm not a rebel," Hasan muttered, his voice barely audible. "I don't know anything about this."
"That's enough."
A deep voice cut through the room. A new figure stepped into the dim light taller, calmer, his expression unreadable.
"You can leave. I'll take it from here."
The first detective hesitated, then nodded and stormed out, leaving Hasan alone with the stranger.
Hasan didn't bother looking up. He knew the game. Good cop, bad cop. It was all the same in the end.
The new man pulled out a chair and sat across from him, studying Hasan's battered face.
"You look like hell," he said, his tone almost conversational.
Hasan said nothing.
The man leaned forward. "You're not making this easy on yourself."
Hasan exhaled slowly. "What do you want me to say?"
The man's eyes gleamed, cold, calculating. "The truth."
Hasan almost laughed. "I've been telling you the truth. You just don't want to hear it."
A long silence stretched between them. Then, the man smiled, a slow, unsettling curve of his lips.
"Let's try this again."
Hasan braced himself. The game wasn't over.
It had only just begun.
The man stepped closer to Hasan, circling him like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. After a few tense rotations, he suddenly grabbed Hasan's hair and yanked him backward, hissing, "I know about your friend Maher. He used to be a cop, but now he's been seen at the demonstrations. Why would someone like him flip unless the Revolutionists brainwashed him?"
Hasan clenched his eyes shut, pain flaring through his neck and scalp from the man's grip. "I don't know what you're talking about," he gasped. "My friends aren't Revolutionists."
Silence. The man slammed Hasan's head into the ground. Rising to his feet, he peeled off his jacket with deliberate menace. "So you don't want to cooperate?" he hissed. "Fine. Just remember… you made me do this."
___________
Maher and Omar had just left their meeting with Abo Bilal when Maher's phone buzzed, an unknown number. He hesitated, then opened the message.
His heart stopped.
A photo. A man, beaten to a pulp and chained to a chair, stripped down to nothing but a torn scrap of cloth around his waist.
Hasan.
They were still in the car. Maher's grip on the phone turned white-knuckled. "Stop the car," he ordered, his voice dangerously low.
Omar frowned. "What's wrong?"
"STOP THE DAMN CAR!"
Omar swerved onto the desolate roadside. Before the car had fully halted, Maher burst out, kicking a nearby tree with a raw, guttural scream. Curses tore from his throat like shrapnel.
Omar rushed after him. "Maher, what the hell is going on?"
Maher's breath came in ragged bursts. "It's personal now."
"What are you talking about?"
"When I was a cop," Maher spat, "there was a detective, a sadistic bastard who got off on breaking people. I stopped him once from torturing a prisoner. Saved the guy's life. Now that twisted monster is tormenting Hasan… and he sent me this to prove it." He shoved the phone at Omar, then yanked it back before Omar could look. "No. You don't need to see that. Nobody does."
Omar recoiled at Maher's fury. "We'll get him back, but you need to."
"I'm keeping this," Maher snarled, pocketing the phone. "as Evidence. But Hasan's family can't see it. Nobody else will see it. Especially his mother, wife and sister, his image in their memory should remain the same, an idiot who can't stop smiling, a cheerful man with a silly wide grin... not this."
Omar nodded his head "You're right, I'll make sure we get him back, then we'll try to help him get back to his feet."