Samer did not sleep.
It was not a conscious choice. His central nervous system simply refused the concept. While the others—their identities still largely defined by their roles in the drama, scattered around the feeble, dying fire—lapsed into fitful, defensive sleep, Samer remained bolt upright. His legs twitched, his jaw was clenched, and the state of rest seemed to be a luxury reserved only for the stable.
Then he saw it.
It did not appear suddenly. It did not glow or flash. It was simply there, a small, low-growing plant nestled amongst the weeds, a few meters outside the circle's boundary.
It was far enough to be a risk. But not far enough to be impossible.
He stared at it for a long time. His conscious, self-preserving mind issued an immediate rejection. His addicted, desperate body did not.
He rose slowly. He glanced around. Everyone was deep in a sleep too shallow to be restorative.
He took one deliberate step outside the circumference.
Nothing happened.
A second, more confident step. The ground was cold, unnervingly normal—perhaps too normal, hinting at a hidden mechanism.
He did not hesitate this time. He moved into a low, frantic run.
He snatched the plant, tearing it from the soil with a trembling hand, and sprinted back. He was inside the circle before he could process the full terror of his transgression.
He collapsed, breathless, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, primal rhythm. He was still alive.
He released a short, muffled laugh, the sound of a man who had passed an incomprehensible test through sheer impulse.
He hurriedly crushed the leaves together, twisting them haphazardly. It was not a professional cigarette; it was a desperate, crude improvisation.
When he lit the bundle from the last remaining ember, a strange, pungent, unfamiliar aroma cut through the cold night air.
He took his first inhalation, then erupted in a fit of violent, noisy, sustained coughing. The paroxysm was racking, disturbing the shallow sleep of the others.
He coughed as he smoked. He smoked as he choked. The pain, the distress, was clearly part of the transaction.
By the time the others were roused, the acrid, thick smoke had preceded him.
Nour sat up abruptly, her face etched with discomfort.
"What is that smell?"
Elias opened his eyes slowly, taking in Samer's hunched, convulsing posture, the smoke curling around his face in the meager light.
No one spoke. The previous conversation—the confession, the fire's immediate reward—loomed heavy in the air.
Samer lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, but there was something else in them: a fragile, temporary semblance of peace.
"It was there." He spoke calmly, as if describing a commonplace stone. "I went out… and came back."
A silence heavier than any scream settled. The transgression had occurred, and the penalty had been absent.
Elias looked from the remaining crushed plant matter in Samer's hand, to the line of the circle, then to the fire. He synthesized the new data point instantly.
"So… it doesn't reward everyone in the same way."
The fire flared momentarily, not from additional fuel, but as if confirming the statement itself.
Samer coughed again, a faint, almost victorious smile touching his lips.
"Don't worry. It won't last me long."
It was not a threat to the group. It was a dark, self-aware promise to the system.