The basement echoed with my movement.

  Five buckets now, not one. They hung at different heights, different speeds, ropes creaking as they cut through the air. I didn't just strike anymore—I dodged, twisted, stepped inside the arc, struck, then slipped back as another bucket came from behind.

  A sharp impact caught my ribs.

  The bucket slammed into me from the side. I lost balance and hit the floor hard, breath knocked out. Pain flared sharp and familiar. I pulled my shirt up. Purple already blooming there, same spot as last week, the week before.

  You don't learn, I told myself. You just bruise deeper.

  The main gate opened.

  The sound traveled through the house like a warning bell. I froze, then stood and headed upstairs.

  Everyone gathered in the living room ten minutes later.

  Dust clung to the adults' clothes like ash. Uncle Abid's coat was streaked with road grime; the others looked hollow, as if the city had peeled something away from them.

  "When we reached the assembly hall," Abid said, voice low, "it was already full."

  He paused.

  "Three men on stage. Old military. Old money. Old preacher."

  The room stayed silent.

  "They showed us the city feed. Makkah's government grid is gone. Bombed. Melted. No authority left—so they're replacing it."

  From his coat pocket, Abid pulled out a slim white card. Matte surface. Gold chip embedded in the center. When he tapped it, a small LED blinked cyan.

  "They're calling it the Grid of Last Exit."

  Eyes locked onto it.

  "This card lets you step outside the safe ring. Food. Medicine. Survivors. Bring something back, earn points—stored on your phone. No card, no exit. Anyone without one gets marked by the system."

  He looked at each of us.

  "Seventeen and older only. One card per household. One chance."

  The discussion didn't last long. We needed resources. We had no choice.

  Then someone said it: "We need weapons."

  Every head turned to me.

  "You make them," Uncle Shahzad said. "Can you?"

  I nodded once. "Yes. But first—tests. The weapon must fit the person."

  Almost every man above seventeen agreed.

  The basement became a forge and proving ground.

  I tested grip, balance, stance. My father went first. Others followed, one by one. Some better with weight, others with reach. Swords, spears, shields—I adjusted everything.

  Hours later, the weapons were finished.

  When the men returned, they felt it immediately.

  "It fits," one said quietly.

  I hung wooden buckets from the terrace above the basement.

  "Strike," I said.

  One by one, they attacked. None could cut through completely.

  "Your weapon isn't wrong," I called down. "You are. Control it. Keep it straight. Use your feet."

  They tried again. Deeper cuts this time.

  I handed out armor—shoulder guards, forearm plates.

  Then the elders left.

  Odai, Etisham, Aroha, Hiba, and Eshle stepped forward.

  "We want to fight too," Odai said.

  I was sitting on the floor. Flake curled beside me. "I named him," I said calmly. "Flake."

  They stared.

  "We want weapons," Etisham said again.

  "Fine," I replied. "But I lead."

  Odai and Etisham protested—until I said one sentence.

  "I have more experience."

  Silence.

  The tests began.

  Aroha first. "Bow," I decided after watching her. "Archer."

  Etisham got a spear. Odai—a sword and shield. Hiba—a light blade. Eshle—daggers, same as mine.

  "Do you want to go outside one day?" I asked.

  No one answered.

  "Then train."

  Buckets flew. This time, I attacked from all sides. The group struggled, then adapted.

  "Don't follow rules blindly," I snapped. "Cut the ropes."

  Eshle did—and created an opening.

  I watched Aroha's aim. Nearly perfect. "Good," I said.

  Later, I fitted Flake with custom armor—light, flexible. Boots with retractable claws.

  We ran drills. Flake dodged thrown objects, struck back with precision. During one exchange, he lashed out and caught Odai's cheek—thin red line, cat landing, no apology.

  First blood drawn by my own build.

  Odai touched his face, shocked.

  I smiled faintly.

  Outside, the elders stepped into the fog.

  They reached a massive store without resistance. Too easy. People rushed in, grabbing supplies.

  Uncle Shahzad didn't move. Something felt wrong. He watched the entrance.

  A man without a card tried to follow. Guards caught him, broke his arm like dry wood—snap echoed through the fog. No one helped. I watched through the window, stomach tight.

  No card, no mercy. First lesson.

  Then a shape emerged from the fog. Black. Tall.

  "Everyone—circle up!" Shahzad shouted.

  A scream echoed.

  I ran with the group, stamina drills. Then buckets again—but this time, dodge only. No strikes.

  They improved.

  Later, we sat together on the bed.

  "I think I can beat Aariz now," Eshle said.

  I said nothing. Just smiled, pulled up my shirt, showed the purple bloom on my ribs. "You're not fighting me," I said. "You're fighting the air I let you breathe."

  Room went quiet. First time they saw the mask was welded on.

  Hiba laughed, but it died quick. Odai and Etisham said nothing.

  Flake jumped into the center. Aroha rubbed his head. Hiba and Eshle joined. The cat leaped onto Odai's head.

  "AAAA—GET IT OFF!"

  Laughter filled the room, but thinner now.

  Hasham appeared. "I want weapons too."

  "No," I said.

  Hasham protested like a child—until Hiba calmed him.

  Downstairs, mothers and aunts prayed silently.

  Above the fog, black figures watched the store from afar.

  "Foolish humans," one said. "They will cause their own end."

  Another figure stepped into the fog, lifted his hand. LED on his wrist blinked same cyan as the Grid card.

  His voice dropped to my ear only, though he was miles away: "Your students are currency. Spend them wisely."

  I froze. Looked at the window. Nothing there.

  But the words stayed.