The TV blared loudly in the background, a sports broadcast cutting through the silence. On screen, a news reporter stood beside Ahmed Ibrahim, who was still dressed in his soccer uniform. The banner read: Ahmed Ibrahim delivers another magnificent performance and wins the championship for the Riyadh Falcons.
Reporter: "So, Mr. Ahmed, how does it feel to claim such an amazing victory?"
Ahmed smiled modestly, his eyes scanning the crowded stadium behind him. "It's always a privilege to play for the team I grew up watching. But honestly, this win isn't just mine. My teammates deserve all the credit for getting us here. Without them, none of this would be possible. I can’t take that away from them."
Suddenly, the TV clicked off.
"BLOODY MURDERER..." A girl’s voice pierced the quiet room. She walked past the screen, her eyes burning with something unreadable, before grabbing her bag from the counter and storming out the door.
The girl, Layla stepped into the cool night air, her breath shaky as she adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder. The slam of the door still echoed in her ears, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the whirlwind of emotions crashing through her.
Hatred. Grief. And that gnawing ache of betrayal that had never truly left her.
She walked briskly down the street, each step an attempt to outrun the memories clawing at her mind. The crowd from the championship game had spilled into the city, jubilant fans waving scarves and chanting Ahmed’s name. Layla’s stomach churned as she pushed past them, each cheer a painful reminder of the man they idolized.
He wasn’t a hero. Not to her.
Reaching the corner of a quieter street, she ducked into a small restaurant where she worked. It wasn’t busy—just a few patrons hunched over steaming plates. The girl at the counter looked up and greeted her with a bright smile.
“Good morning, Layla!”
Layla forced a smile in return, murmuring, “Morning,” before heading straight toward the kitchen.
Pushing the door open, she was met with the familiar rush of warm air, spice, and the hum of activity. The scents of cumin and garlic swirled around her as she tied on her apron and adjusted her headband. Her hands trembled slightly as she fished her phone from her bag.
For a moment, she just stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the image she’d seen a hundred times before. A faded photo of Omar, her brother, grinning ear to ear as he stood beside Ahmed years ago.
It had been taken the day Omar made the team. The happiest day of his life.
And the last time she’d seen him alive.
The kitchen door swung open, and Layla quickly shoved the phone into her pocket. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile stepped inside, wiping her hands on her apron.
“So, what’s on the lunch menu today, Miss Layla?” she asked cheerfully.
“Maybe something spicy,” Layla mumbled, her mind still miles away.
The woman chuckled. “You’ve got a knack for that. Let’s spice things up, then!” She turned and left Layla alone with the weight of her thoughts.
Layla leaned against the counter, staring blankly at the cutting board in front of her. The investigation into Omar’s death had been closed years ago, labeled a tragic accident. But Layla knew better.
Omar had confided in her before everything fell apart. About the tensions in the locker room, the arguments, the veiled threats. And the last person seen with him before his death? Ahmed Ibrahim.
For years, Layla had tried to uncover the truth, piecing together fragments of evidence and following leads that always seemed to dry up. But Ahmed’s fame and fortune, backed by his father’s immense wealth and influence, had shielded him from any real scrutiny.
Now, as Ahmed basked in glory and adoration, Layla clenched her fists.
Until now.
This time, she wouldn’t let him hide. This time, she’d make sure the truth was known—no matter the cost.
Layla moved mechanically in the kitchen, her hands chopping onions while her mind swirled with plans. The evidence she had gathered over the years was circumstantial at best—enough to raise questions but not enough to expose the truth.
But she wasn’t just after questions anymore. She wanted answers.
The image of Omar’s smiling face burned in her mind. He had been everything to her—a protective older brother, her confidant, her guide. And Ahmed had stolen that from her.
Hadn’t he?
She gritted her teeth and set down the knife. It didn’t matter how powerful Ahmed or his family was. She had a name now, one whispered in the dark corners of conversations she’d overheard: Mustafa Rahim, a shadowy figure connected to Ahmed’s father. If there was a loose thread in this tangled web, she was going to pull it.
The kitchen door opened again and the woman informed her that there are new customers in the restaurant and they have ordered and then passed her the paper with the order. Layla exhaled slowly, steadying herself as she took the paper. There was work to do, both in the kitchen and beyond.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Ahmed stared at his phone, the message glaring back at him like an accusation.
Anonymous: You can’t bury the past forever. I know what you did.
His pulse quickened, a cold sweat forming on his brow. It wasn’t the first message like this.
For years, these texts had haunted him. They had started shortly after Omar’s death. At first, they came sporadically, cryptic and unnerving, but easy enough to dismiss. He’d thought it was a cruel prank—an anonymous troll capitalizing on a tragedy.
But they hadn’t stopped.
Every few months, another text would arrive. Sometimes it was vague, like “The truth will surface.” Other times, it was more direct: “You were there that night.”
Ahmed had tried everything—changing his number, blocking unknown senders, even hiring a private investigator. But whoever it was always found a way back.
Now, as his star rose higher than ever, the texts had become more frequent, almost as if someone was watching him, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
He scrolled through his phone’s message history, his stomach tightening as he read the older ones.
Anonymous: Your silence won’t protect you.
Anonymous: Do you ever think about Omar?
Anonymous: He deserved better.
Ahmed leaned back in his chair, the glow of the city lights doing little to ease the chill running down his spine.
He wasn’t a murderer. He knew that. But the guilt gnawed at him anyway.
That night—the night Omar died—was a blur of mistakes and bad decisions. Arguments had flared in the locker room, tensions spilling over after weeks of unspoken resentment. He had tried to step in, to de-escalate. But then Omar had left, storming off into the night, and Ahmed hadn’t followed.
That was his mistake.
He should have gone after him, should have made sure Omar was safe. Instead, he had stayed behind, caught up in a heated conversation with Mustafa Rahim, the man his father had sent to "manage" team disputes.
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And then Omar had died.
The investigation had cleared him, but the questions remained. Why had Omar left so suddenly? And why had Mustafa been so insistent that Ahmed forget about it?
His phone buzzed again, jolting him back to the present. Another message.
Anonymous: It’s time to talk.
Ahmed’s breath hitched. He set the phone down carefully, as if it might explode in his hand. His heart raced as he stared at the screen.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
As Layla poured over her evidence later that night, she circled Mustafa Rahim’s name again and again. He was the key—she could feel it. But finding him wouldn’t be easy. He was a ghost, a man who existed only in whispers.
The plan was simple, but the weight of it sat heavy on Layla’s shoulders as she adjusted the settings on the voice modulator app. It wasn’t the kind of thing she ever imagined herself doing, but after years of hitting dead ends, she was done waiting.
Ahmed’s name had been whispered in connection with Omar’s death, but it wasn’t just him. Mustafa Rahim’s shadow loomed large over the case, and Ahmed’s father—wealthy, powerful, and untouchable—was at the heart of it all.
Meanwhile, Ahmed sat in his penthouse, gripping his phone. The texts felt closer, more personal this time. For the first time in years, he considered calling his father. Not for advice, but for the truth.
What had really happened to Omar that night? What was his father hiding? Where has Mustafa been for all these years?
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The drive to his father’s estate felt longer than usual, though the roads were clear. Ahmed gripped the steering wheel tighter, his mind swirling with questions he wasn’t sure how to ask.
The estate loomed ahead, an architectural masterpiece of glass and stone, a testament to his father’s wealth and influence. Ahmed parked and sat in silence for a moment, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him.
When he finally stepped inside, his father was in his study, poring over papers. As always, he looked perfectly composed, his tailored suit unwrinkled despite the late hour.
“Ahmed,” his father said without looking up. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I needed to talk to you,” Ahmed replied, stepping closer.
His father finally glanced up, his sharp gaze locking onto Ahmed. “About what?”
Ahmed hesitated. “The night Omar died.”
The air in the room seemed to shift. His father’s expression hardened, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his face.
“We’ve been over this,” his father said, setting his papers aside. “Why bring it up now?”
“I just... I need to understand,” Ahmed said carefully. “Why was Mustafa there that night? What was he doing with Omar?”
His father’s jaw tightened. “Mustafa was doing his job. Managing tensions. Keeping the team in line.”
“Keeping the team in line?” Ahmed repeated, disbelief creeping into his voice. “Omar died that night, and Mustafa disappeared. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?”
“Enough, Ahmed.” His father’s voice was sharp now, a tone Ahmed hadn’t heard in years. “Omar’s death was a tragedy, yes, but it was also an accident. The investigation is closed. Let it go.”
Ahmed’s chest tightened. “Why are you so defensive about this? If there’s nothing to hide—”
“I said enough!” His father rose to his feet, his commanding presence filling the room. “You think you understand the world, but you don’t. You’ve been shielded from the harsh realities I’ve dealt with to build our name, our legacy. Don’t question me about things you can’t begin to comprehend.”
Ahmed stared at him, a mix of anger and disbelief bubbling up inside. “You’re not denying it,” he said quietly.
His father didn’t respond, his silence more damning than any words could have been.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The soft hum of her phone filled the room as Layla fiddled with the modulator app, her fingers steady despite the anxiety churning in her stomach. Tonight, she wasn’t just going to be asking questions—she was going to deliver an accusation. She had to make it clear to Ahmed that he couldn’t escape what had happened to Omar.
Her brother’s image flickered in her mind—the last time she’d seen him, so full of life, so full of hope. The fact that it was Ahmed, the man who had stood beside Omar on the field, who had shared laughs with him, who had known him like a brother, only made the betrayal worse.
Layla tapped the screen and adjusted the settings, making sure the voice modulator was set just right to distort her voice enough to keep her identity a secret. She wanted him to listen to the words, not the voice.
Layla's Voice (modulated): You think you can get away with this, don’t you, Ahmed?
She paused, listening to her own voice. Too harsh. She needed more subtlety. More fear. More weight. The anger needed to seep through, but it couldn’t overpower the accusation.
She pressed stop and re-recorded, her fingers lightly tapping on the table as she thought through her next words.
Layla's Voice (modulated): I know what you did, Ahmed. You were there that night. You watched it happen and you did nothing. Omar trusted you.
Her stomach tightened as she played it back. This was more like it. It was direct, but not too forceful. It was personal, and it was designed to make Ahmed feel cornered, like he couldn’t run from the truth.
She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining what his reaction would be. Would he hang up? Would he deny it all? Or would he crumble under the weight of the accusation?
She re-recorded once more, letting her voice carry a sense of calculated menace.
Layla's Voice (modulated): You were the last person to see him alive, Ahmed. How could you let him die like that? You’re not as innocent as you think.
This version felt right. Now she would hold his feet to the fire. He had to feel the weight of what had been buried.
Her heart raced as she stared at the screen, feeling the pressure of the moment build. This wasn’t just a call—it was the moment everything could change. The moment the lies would crumble.
She exhaled deeply and adjusted the volume on her phone.
She played the recording once more. Her accusation was clear, sharp, and full of guilt. It was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but it had to be done. Layla took one last look at her reflection in the mirror beside her. She didn’t look like the girl who had been broken by loss. No, tonight, she was something different. Someone who was finally going to make Ahmed face the truth.
With a final deep breath, she pressed Call.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Ahmed sat in his penthouse, his thoughts consumed by the conversation with his father. The encounter had left him shaken, the cracks in his relationship with the man he had always admired growing wider.
He hadn’t spoken to his father since, though the man had left him several curt messages urging him to “focus on the game” and “stay away from things that don’t concern him.”
That night, his phone buzzed again, a blocked number lighting up the screen. Ahmed stared at it for a moment before answering.
“Who is this?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration.
Layla :
Her breath hitched as Ahmed’s voice came through the line, sharp, demanding. Layla didn’t flinch. She had prepared for this moment for days, and now it was happening.
She adjusted her posture, closing her eyes for a moment. Her fingers brushed the modulator button, ready to speak.
Layla's Voice (modulated): I know what you did, Ahmed. You were there that night. You watched it happen and you did nothing. Omar trusted you.
She could feel the words in her throat, could almost taste the bitterness of them. But she forced the accusation out, steadying herself, her heart pounding in her chest.
Ahmed :
The words hit like a punch to the gut. He froze, the phone feeling heavier in his hand as the accusation sunk in. You were there. You did nothing. The words echoed in his mind, and he felt the anger begin to build.
“What the hell is this?” he said, his tone shifting from irritation to confusion. He clenched his jaw, trying to push the unease aside.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Layla :
She felt a brief flicker of uncertainty as Ahmed’s voice cracked through the modulator, raw with emotion. But she didn’t let herself waver. She could already hear the tension in his voice, the way her words were landing. She had his attention. That was the key.
Her fingers shook as she pressed the button again, the next line ready.
Layla's Voice (modulated): You were the last person to see him alive, Ahmed. How could you let him die like that? You’re not as innocent as you think.
She could almost see his face contorting in disbelief, confusion, or perhaps guilt. And that was exactly what she wanted. She had to make him face the reality of what he had been a part of, what he had failed to stop.
Ahmed :
The accusation, this time, struck with more weight. The last person to see Omar alive. The image of that night, the argument in the locker room, all of it came rushing back in a flood of memories he’d pushed to the back of his mind.
But his mind rejected it. This was crazy. This couldn’t be real. He gripped the phone tighter, the words in his head fighting against the growing sense of guilt and confusion.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Omar’s death was an accident,” he said, his voice shaky now, the certainty in his words beginning to falter.
Layla :
Her breath was coming faster now as she pressed forward. She could hear the cracks in his voice, the uncertainty. She had pushed him, and it was working.
She knew she was hitting a nerve, but she couldn’t stop. She had to press further, expose him to the truth he hadn’t been brave enough to confront.
Layla's Voice (modulated): Don’t lie, Ahmed. You think you can hide behind your career, behind your father’s money. But the truth is out there. You’re not fooling anyone.
Ahmed :
His chest tightened as her words sank in, as though they were clawing their way under his skin. His father’s cold, defensive words from their conversation earlier echoed in his mind, and he felt the weight of the lies pressing down on him.
He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t. But something in his gut told him he needed to know the truth, even if it shattered everything.
“I... I don’t know who you are, but—” He broke off, his voice cracking. “What do you want from me?”
Layla :
She was almost there. She could feel it in her chest, the heat of the moment building. Her heart raced, but she steadied her hand.
This was it. This was the crack in the wall she’d been searching for.
Layla's Voice (modulated): Ask your father, Ahmed. Ask him about Mustafa. About that night. And then ask yourself—why has the truth been buried so deep?
The line went dead before he could respond. Layla held the phone to her ear, the silence ringing louder than anything.
Her heart pounded as she exhaled, her fingers trembling. She had done it.
Ahmed stared at the phone, the words echoing in his head, a thousand thoughts swirling around him. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know what to believe anymore.
The investigation had always seemed straightforward. An accident. But now...
The truth wasn’t as clear as it had seemed. Layla has successfully planted the seed of doubt in Ahmed’s mind. His connection with his father is starting to fray, and her plan to push him toward the truth is taking shape.