Mourad took a deep breath, his voice trembling slightly as he continued, "When the chaos broke out, we all tried to run—me, my brother, Karim, and the other boys. But in the chaos, my brother fell. I stopped, turned back, and tried to help him up. He was injured, limping, but I wasn't going to leave him behind."
His gaze hardened, his tone laced with bitterness. "Then the cops showed up. They didn't care about who was innocent or guilty; they just attacked. One of them came straight at us. I was trying to carry my brother, but the cop yanked me away and hit me on the head. I fell to the ground, dazed, and as I lay there, I saw everything."
Mourad's voice cracked, the memory clearly haunting him. "They beat my brother. He was already hurt, and they just kept hitting him. One cop… I'll never forget his face. He struck my brother in the head with a baton. That was it. My brother's body just… fell. Lifeless. I screamed his name, over and over, but he didn't move. I knew he was gone."
He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "They shackled me, dragged me to the police station like I was some criminal, while my brother's body lay there, treated like trash. Later, they reported him as just another casualty in the stadium riots. No one cared. My family tried to seek justice, but nothing came of it. The cop who killed my brother walked free."
Mourad's voice grew cold. "After the funeral, my family couldn't bear to stay in that neighborhood. We moved to another part of the city. I never went back. But I couldn't forget. I couldn't let it go. That cop took everything from me."
He looked at Ayman, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and sorrow. "I found him, Ayman. Few years after the incident, I tracked him down. I watched him, studied his routine. One night, I confronted him. He didn't even remember me or my brother. But I remembered him. I killed him."
Ayman's breath caught, stunned by Mourad's confession. Mourad's expression softened, almost nostalgic. "That's when I met her—my teacher, the one who changed my life. She found me after I killed the cop. She helped me clean up the mess, taught me how to cover my tracks. She burned his body and made it look like an accident. That's how I entered this world—the hitman world. Someday I will tell you the full details."
Mourad leaned back, his voice steady now. "But do I regret it? No. That cop deserved it. But not all cops are like that. There are good ones. Your brother was one of them. I respected Karim so much. He was different."
He smiled faintly, his voice tinged with warmth. "When I met Karim again at the police station and knew who I am, he hugged me. He was so happy to see me, asking where I'd been and what I was doing. I didn't tell him I was a hitman, of course. I told him I was a real estate agent. He laughed and said it was great that I'd turned my life around. We sat for hours, drinking coffee and reminiscing about our childhood."
Mourad's voice softened further. "That's how I learned about you. Karim talked about you a lot, about how you'd grown up, about your struggles, your dreams. He was so proud of you, Ayman. That's why, when I heard what happened to him, I couldn't just stand by. I've been keeping an eye on you ever since."
Mourad paused, his gaze steady. "That's why I'm here now, offering you this chance. Not just because you're Karim's brother, but because I see something in you. Something I saw in myself back then. A fire, a will to survive. And I want to help you channel that. Whatever you choose, Ayman, just know it's your choice. I'm here to guide you, not force you."
Ayman said "Yes I know."
Mourad leaned back in his chair, his expression calm but resolute. "That's life," he said, his voice heavy with acceptance. "It's not fair, it's not kind, but it's what we have to deal with. And yes, maybe now you understand why I became a hitman. It wasn't something I dreamed of being—it's just the path life forced on me. But I want you to know something, Ayman. If you're going to do this, you need to do it the right way."
Ayman tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "The right way? How can there be a 'right' way to be a hitman?"
Mourad gave a small smile. "I mean, respect the life you're taking. You're already ending someone's story—don't make it worse by torturing them or dragging it out. Just give them a quick, clean end. No unnecessary suffering. That's what I do. I don't gloat, I don't show off, I just finish the job, get paid, and move on."
He paused, looking Ayman in the eye. "I don't disrespect the cops, even though I hate them for what they did to my brother. I don't go out looking for revenge anymore. I live my life. People think I'm a successful real estate agent. I visit my family, I have a drink or two at home, and that's it. I don't draw attention to myself. That's why your brother never knew I was a hitman. He was just happy to see me doing well, being respectable."
Mourad's voice softened as he continued. "Your brother, he was a good man. After what happened to my brother, it changed him. He told me he didn't want to be like the bad cops who hurt people for no reason. He wanted to help, to make a difference. And he did. He became the kind of cop who cared about others, who stood for what was right."
Ayman's eyes glistened with emotion. "Karim always wanted to do good. That's why his loss feels so heavy."
Mourad nodded solemnly. "I respected your brother. He turned his pain into something positive, something meaningful. That's not easy to do. But, Ayman, you're lucky that it was me who found you and not one of the bad hitmen out there. There are many—ruthless, cruel, and without any code. They just do whatever it takes to get the job done, no matter how brutal or innocent people caught in between."
He leaned forward, his gaze serious. "But not all of us are like that. There are good ones, Ayman. And if you choose this path, you can be one of the good ones. You can take control of your life, but do it with dignity. That's what I want for you. If you have to step into this world, at least do it on your own terms, with your own code. That's how you survive—and how you keep your soul intact, as much as you can."
Ayman nodded slowly, the weight of Mourad's words settling in his chest. For the first time, he felt like there might be a way forward, even in the darkness.
Mourad leaned back, his tone casual yet shadowed by an unmistakable grimness. "There are all sorts in this world, Ayman. People take up this job for different reasons, each with their own twisted ways. Some even create nicknames for themselves—strange monikers to use when dealing with others like them."
He shifted forward slightly, as if inviting Ayman into the darker corners of the hitman underworld. "Take Bou Minchar, for example. He's one of the worst. Loves to torture his victims before killing them."
Ayman raised an eyebrow, intrigued and disturbed. "Bou Minchar? That's... strange. It means 'Father of Saw.' Does he actually use a saw? Is that his thing?"
Mourad nodded, his expression darkening. "Yeah, he's obsessed with a certain movie franchise. It's not just about the money for him—it's the control, the fear. He kidnaps his victims and forces them into sick, twisted games that end in death. Tries to copy what he's seen in the films. For him, it's all about the suffering. No respect, no clean kills."
Ayman's stomach turned at the thought. Mourad noticed but didn't let up. "Then there's my teacher," he continued, his voice lowering. "Her nickname is Armala Swadaa."
Ayman tilted his head, recognizing the reference. "Like the black widow spider? Or like the one from our folklore?"
Mourad smirked faintly. "Both I guess. But she's exactly like the Hajala Swadaa from the old stories—the black widow that hunts men, forces them to marry her, and then kills them. Even though she's older now, don't let her appearance fool you. She's as deadly as ever."
Ayman's voice softened, recalling childhood tales. "When I was a kid, I heard scary stories about Hajala Swadaa. A mythical creature that lured men to their deaths. She was terrifying."
Mourad chuckled dryly. "She lives up to the legend. She's been killing for decades, every death calculated. She's the one who covered for me after I killed that cop, taught me everything I know about this life."
Ayman swallowed, his mind spinning. "You learned a lot from her?"
Mourad's gaze sharpened. "Everything. How to keep it clean, how to hide my tracks. But her methods? Ruthless. There's no mercy in her. Althought she seducive at first but she kills with precision and vanishes without a trace."
The sheer variety of killers Mourad described left Ayman reeling. Mourad, sensing his unease, continued, his tone steady but laden with caution. "Then there's Al Fazaa. This one's different. A psychological torturer. He doesn't just kill physically—he breaks his victims mentally first."
Ayman leaned forward, curious despite himself. "Al Fazaa? That means... like the trap used to scare animals like crows in barns?"
Mourad nodded grimly. "Exactly. He's like a human scarecrow. He uses gas—poisonous gas—to suffocate his victims, watching them die slowly while he stands there in a gas mask. He once killed an entire family, just stood there, watching."
Ayman shuddered. "And no one suspects him?"
"That's the thing," Mourad said. "Outside of this life, he's kind, ordinary even. A regular guy. But when night falls, he becomes something else entirely."
Ayman's gaze fixed on Mourad, the stories coalescing into a grim mosaic. "And you, Mourad? What about you? Do you have a nickname?"
Mourad's lips curled into a faint smile, as if he'd been waiting for the question. "Amir Al Ghourban," he said, his voice tinged with pride.
Ayman frowned. "You are prince of some crows? a Prince of Crows? That's... a strange nickname."
Mourad leaned back, his eyes drifting into the distance. "It fits. I've earned it. I had help from the best to claim that title—and I'm not just talking about the Black Widow."
Intrigued, Ayman pressed on. "Who else? Another mentor?"
Mourad nodded. "Fares Dhalem. One of the oldest, most successful hitmen in Tunisia."
Ayman's face lit up with recognition. "Like the Dark Knight from the Yugi-oh cards?"
Mourad chuckled. "Close, but not exactly. He's like Batman—a wealthy, powerful man living the good life by day. But by night? He's unstoppable. A killing machine. No one suspects him of anything. They think he's just a businessman."
Mourad's voice softened, a weight hanging in the air. "There are a lot of us, Ayman. Some kill out of necessity, others by choice. But the ones who last, the ones who don't burn out—they follow a code. We might be killers, but we're not all the same. You've got to decide what kind of hitman you want to be."
Ayman sat back, the grim reality of this world pressing in on him. After a moment of silence, he asked, "What does your nickname mean? Amir Al Ghourban?"
Mourad's smile returned, faint but tinged with meaning. "It means I sacrifice those I kill—for the greater good."
Ayman looked at him, intrigued. Mourad then reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring, placing it on the table. It was a deep red, with Japanese symbol graved into to it.
"What this symbol means?" Ayman asked.
Mourad chuckled softly. "There's a character from an anime I liked a long time ago. A man who killed his entire clan—his own family—for the greater good of his village. He sacrificed everything for what he believed was right. I'm the same way. I'll do whatever it takes, even if it means making painful choices. Sometimes, you have to kill to make things better. To bring about real change."
Ayman stared at the ring for a moment, feeling the weight of Mourad's words settle in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't sure what to make of it all, but one thing was clear—Mourad was a man who had already walked a long, dark road. And Ayman, whether he was ready or not, was about to begin his own.