The apartment reeked of sweat and fear. Shadows clung to the walls, stretching and twitching with every flicker of the dying power. Beyond the thin windows, Casablanca had transformed into a graveyard of silence—an uneasy hush punctured by sudden bursts of chaos. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. A car engine roared, then cut abruptly. And, every so often, a scream—raw, inhuman—split the night like tearing metal.
Inside, the cousins circled each other like trapped animals.
Anas paced the length of the small living room, hands clasped tightly behind his back, trying to impose order on the chaos. "We need a plan," he said, his voice low but firm. "Supplies won't last more than a day. Food, water, something to protect ourselves. We can't sit here waiting to starve or be found."
Nabil slammed his fist against the table, rattling the empty glasses. "We don't need a plan—we need action! You saw it out there. The ones who hesitate are the first to die. While we're arguing, the stores are being stripped clean. I say we raid now, while there's still something left."
On the couch, Zak curled into himself, trembling violently. His eyes were wide and hollow, his hands twisting in his lap. "You don't understand," he whispered. "I saw them with my own eyes. They don't feel pain. A man shot one—shot him in the chest, point-blank. And he kept moving. He didn't even slow down. You can't fight them. You can't."
The room thickened with tension, their voices clashing like knives in the dark.
Soufiane stood apart, the fishing knife gripped so tightly in his hand his knuckles had turned white. His mind drifted helplessly toward the things he could not reach—his parents, lost behind silent phone lines; his son, far away in the Netherlands, shielded from this nightmare but unreachable; his sister and her children, distant across the sea in Germany. His family scattered, like pieces of a puzzle he would never fit back together.
Then—
A sound. A faint, deliberate thud at the window.
The cousins froze. Silence pressed in.
Slowly, Soufiane turned his head. A silhouette leaned against the glass.
For a heartbeat, it might have been a man. But the details dissolved that illusion. Clouded eyes stared blindly into the room. Blood clung to its mouth and chin, dark and sticky, glistening in the light of the flickering bulb. Its chest rose and fell in shallow, unnatural rhythm. Then it groaned—a guttural, broken sound that sent ice crawling up Soufiane's spine.
The thing slammed its head against the glass. A crack spidered across the pane.
"My God…" Zak whispered, stumbling backward.
Another slam. The glass fractured. Another. And then the window gave way in an explosion of shards.
The figure crashed into the room in a storm of broken glass, landing in a twisted heap. For an instant it was still. Then, with terrifying speed, it scrambled to its feet and lunged.
Anas roared, grabbing the nearest chair and swinging it down onto the creature's skull. Wood splintered across its head, but the monster barely staggered.
"Soufiane!" Anas shouted.
Instinct took command. Soufiane surged forward, knife flashing. He drove the blade straight into the creature's temple.
The impact jolted through his arm. The thing convulsed, a shudder running through its body, then collapsed onto the floor. Still at last.
For a long, shivering moment, the room was silent. Only their ragged breathing filled the space.
Soufiane stared at the knife in his hand, blood dripping from the blade. His hands trembled, not just with fear, but with the weight of what he had done. This wasn't fishing at dawn, catching life from the sea. This wasn't survival as a pastime. This was survival as a species.
Nabil broke the silence, his voice low, cold. "It's us or them. And we'd better get used to it."
Soufiane wiped the blade against his jeans, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the lifeless body sprawled across the floor. He didn't want to get used to it. But deep inside, he knew he would.
The window lay shattered. Their sanctuary was gone.
And the night had officially drawn its first blood.