Where Is Manar?
Book Two: Sorry, Ma'am — This Body Is Not for Rent
Chapter Two: The Big Wisdom (A Blood Footnote)
—
In their cramped room, thick with cigarette smoke and the dying whine of an Xbox fan pushed past its limits, the scene was far from literary dignity. It was closer to a fraternal battlefield. Sami and Maytham sat side by side, backs against the bed frame, fingers tearing at controller buttons with primal violence.
"You dog — how did you dodge that?" Sami's eyes nearly burst from their sockets as he watched his Tekken character stagger under a cheap shot.
Maytham laughed his irritating laugh, eyes fixed on the screen. "Because you're a donkey, Sami. You think random button-mashing will save you against me? Watch your blood spill, you ungrateful bastard. I'm ending your pathetic career now."
In their private dictionary, "my brother" meant a stranger was in the room. "Your Grace" meant their relationship was in serious diplomatic crisis. But "dog," "ungrateful bastard," and "idiot"? Those were medals of honor — expressions of unshakeable fraternal confidence. Their tongues traded blows as fast and sharp as their fingers on the controllers.
"You brilliant bastard — how did you steal that move at the last second?" Sami slammed the buttons so hard he nearly crushed them.
Maytham let out a dry laugh, maneuvering with infuriating skill. "You call it stealing? It's called intelligence — something you clearly lack, you head of ignorance."
"Words like 'intelligence' don't suit you," Sami shot back, his tone sharp but edged with laughter as he launched a counterattack. "Swallow this kick, you enemy of comprehension. I'll make you recalculate your entire career in this game you pretend to master."
Maytham, practically vibrating with excitement, tightened his grip. "I swear you won't land it, idiot. That move only fools people at your shallow level. Watch closely — I'll end your misery with one hit. You'll regret the day you challenged me."
A moment of combat silence — broken only by the rapid-fire combo sounds from Maytham's console. Sami burst out: "You have no honor! That move is outright betrayal — you've violated the sacred code of combat!"
"Betrayal? You're just a lost soul wandering into grown men's territory." Maytham finished the round with a decisive blow, then leaned back with cold satisfaction. "Lesson over, my ungrateful student. Now go get us something to drink. My throat's dry from laughing at your humiliation."
Sami shook his head, tossing the controller aside. "You're the worst opponent I've ever faced. But don't celebrate — next round, I'll make you apologize to every pixel on that screen."
—
Steam rose from the tea glasses arranged carefully on the tray, threading the scent of an Iraqi home into the Xbox's hot air. Maytham set the tray between them with care as Sami wiped his palms on his jeans, preparing for vengeance.
"Drink, you ungrateful bastard — maybe this tea will reassemble what's left of your dignity, scattered across the screen." Maytham winked, sliding a glass toward Sami with smug ceremony.
Sami took the glass with his left hand, his right still locked on the controller like a licensed weapon. "My dignity? Better calm your nerves before I make your character apply for humanitarian asylum. Taste this attack!"
The soundtrack erupted. Round two began. Mid-combo, Sami said: "Tell me, O philosopher of failures — what happened to you? Your refined fashion sense seems to have undergone significant developments lately."
Maytham landed a lightning strike that rattled the screen. "I don't know! Sami, I genuinely don't know what happened."
"'I don't know.' Dedicated to every empty philosophy your tongue produced today."
Sparks flew as the characters clashed. Maytham, trying to escape with a quick combo, dropped his voice: "You know — I don't even remember how I got back to Basra. The last thing I remember is that cursed frog revealing he was from the dog people... Sami, I think I've lost it. I saw things — or I think I saw them — and now I genuinely don't know what's real."
Sami laughed softly and set his empty glass on the tray with a quiet clink. "You know what? Dog people? Not frog people? Doesn't matter. I only know one thing."
He looked at Maytham and saw it — a confusion he had never seen in his Dog brother before. A lostness mixed with something that looked like a plea: any explanation, even a bleak one, just enough to quiet the madness currently throwing a cursed party in his head.
"You know, Maytham — I'm a barber. I cut your hair two weeks ago. I don't care what you're trying to tell me, but I'm ready to swear on every sewer in Basra that your beard and hair would need a full year to grow this long. So whatever madness you witnessed — even if you don't believe it yourself — bring it to me. I'll carry what your mind can't carry alone. When were you ever alone, anyway?"
The light returned to Maytham's eyes, slowly: "Tsk... I can't believe I let myself get psychologically defeated by a frog. Even with his dog-people software update." He mashed buttons at random, only to discover his health bar had hit zero — Sami had blindsided him. "You bastard — you tricked me!"
"It doesn't matter what you saw or heard. However strange it was, I believe you," Sami said, his voice quiet and steady. "At least I trust my Dog brother's madness more than the rationality of people who claim to be logical."
Maytham — the Dog, the real Dog-of-Dogs — was back. "And this round counts as my win. Non-negotiable."
—
While they talked, there was a third presence in the room — floating between them, watching the TV with something like curiosity. A strange book, gleaming like meteor metal, its cover shifting and never quite clear. It drifted above Sami, observed, then circled Maytham. It paid no attention to Lonely watching from the ceiling corner. Or perhaps it simply didn't consider Lonely worth engaging with. What either of them was thinking, no one could say.
"You know, Dog — at first we were on some secret mission. The frog didn't explain anything. He and the whole group were sealed up tight in a weird way."
"Trying to look like some enigmatic leader figure. Tsk. And then?"
"Then he fed me some garbage wrapped in a history lesson — Nimrod, the Americans. I don't remember clearly, but apparently they'd opened a private club for deviants."
"Yes. And you believed him. Which means he lied," Sami confirmed with authority that didn't suit him.
"Then things took a different turn. I don't know if what I'm about to say is real or if that son of a shoe slipped me something that scrambled my brain. But — do you remember the movie 'Dog People vs. Sewer People'?"
"Yes. The greatest film ever — before Trump entered Hollywood."
"After the girl kissed the frog, he turned into a dog — like Van Helsing when he fought Dracula. But I didn't see any girl in the car. Just Siraj. I think they exchanged something before the transformation and I just missed it."
"Yes, I've long suspected Dajja's group was a collection of deviants. And then?"
"Then I discovered the entire group were dogs in disguise. I emptied a full magazine into Dajja — not a scratch. Like hitting a tank."
"If what you're saying is true and not some variety of hashish, we'll need silver weapons. And if silver turns out to be a lie after all this — maybe Dajja could govern Iraq."
"I don't know. He mentioned a lot of things I didn't absorb at the time from fear. I remember him saying there are three factions — or three different ways of thinking."
"If my thinking is right and you've been gone a week with no one coming after you yet — it won't stay that simple," Sami said after working through the situation.
"Yeah. He mentioned mysterious Believers he didn't like to discuss. Then there are the Sorcerers. His group he called the Transcended. But I think he was lying about some of it. He said you could drink some chemical filth and transform into a dog like him. You believe that nonsense?"
"I don't know, Dog. What I do know is we need to strengthen our faith starting today — or run fast enough that he can't find us. Don't think escaping alone will protect me from someone like Dajja. He collects every bad quality there is, but he was never stupid."
"So what do we do?" Maytham said, his mind fully back.
"We run. After lunch, we go somewhere far from home so we don't drag the family into this. The rest — we'll find a solution or make one. And even if we fail, at least they stay out of it," Sami said, clean and direct, no room for argument.
—
Sami entered the room carrying the lunch tray, balancing carefully. The eggplant stew's sharp sourness filled the air. He set it between them on the floor and looked at Maytham, who sat in a strange posture — touching his long beard as if he still couldn't believe it was his.
"Here you go, champion — swallow this eggplant execution. God willing it puts your brain back where it belongs," Sami said, distributing the stew over the rice with military precision.
Maytham knew he hadn't said everything yet. But some words need food in the stomach before they'll come out.
He didn't reach for the bowl. His voice trembled slightly: "Sami — it's not about the beard and the hair. It's my mind. I don't remember anything after I entered the temple. The last thing I remember is someone throwing something into the well. When I came out, my memory was completely scrambled. I think I walked on autopilot until I reached you. The only thing I feel right now is that I'm bound by a contract — what it is, why it exists, I don't know. All I know is there's something inside me pushing me to find a young woman who fits certain... specific criteria."
Sami stopped pouring the stew. "A woman?"
"Yes. A woman. I don't know why. Not a specific one — one who fits very particular criteria."
Sami set the ladle down and looked his brother in the eye. "You know I'd do anything for you, Maytham."
"I know."
"But harming innocent people — even if the reason is madness — is not an option that exists in my vocabulary," Sami said with a weight that left no room for debate.
"I know that. And I swear to you, Sami — on our brotherhood — I don't want to hurt anyone. But something is telling me that the moment I find the right woman and she shakes my hand — or accepts the handshake willingly — I'll be free from whatever this disease is that's living in my head."
Sami leaned back against the bed frame. "Just a handshake? Nothing else? Be certain — because I will not do anything that conflicts with my principles. Not even for myself."
"I swear. Just a handshake. The condition is she agrees — she says 'I consent.' That's it. That's the whole thing."
Sami took out a cigarette, lit it, drew a long breath and exhaled slowly. "Oof... Alright. And what are these criteria?"
Maytham tried to excavate the words carved somewhere in his mind: "She must be an adult. Sober. In full possession of her mind. The other criteria — I don't understand them. There's mention of a specific kind of beauty and strange details that read like the way women choose their clothes. Nothing I could make logical sense of."
Sami was quiet for a moment, then stubbed out his cigarette. "Fine. We'll look for someone while we're running. And I hope with everything I have that nobody gets hurt because of us."
Lost in their discussion, neither of them noticed that the meteor-book was hovering around them like a third participant — nodding at some points, shifting its cover in apparent disagreement at others. A quiet, uninvited guest ignored by two men too consumed with their unknown fate.
—
The stew's sourness was strong enough to wake the dead, but Maytham ate in a silence that said something. As if the eggplant was far less bitter than whatever was circling in his head.
They ate without much talk. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable — it was the kind that doesn't need filling. The silence of two people who have been tired together.
When they finished, Sami set the tray aside and leaned against the bed. Maytham was still, staring at a point that wasn't in the room.
Sami took an apple from the fruit basket he'd brought up from the kitchen — his old habit after eating. He picked up the small knife he always carried and began peeling it in slow, automatic strokes. His eyes went distant. His mind drifted elsewhere.
The eggplant smell still clung to the room, but the air had grown heavier. As if the oxygen itself had thickened. Sami, his mind lost in the logistics of escape, had no idea the small knife peeling the apple was writing a new fate.
Thwip.
The blade slipped. It cut through the silence before it cut through Sami's palm. Blood welled up bright and fast. He jumped to his feet to go to the bathroom, but his foot caught the folded edge of the rug he'd always meant to fix. He stumbled, lurched forward, and by reflex threw out his left hand to grab anything.
His wounded hand came down on empty air — or so it seemed. But his palm landed directly on the surface of the floating meteor-book.
Sami felt no paper. What he felt was a metallic cold that went straight to his spine, and warmth — his own blood, sinking into the book's surface. For one second, everything stopped. Even the Xbox fan went silent. As if time had drawn a deep breath.
Maytham — who had felt invisible chains dragging his soul since returning from Babylon — felt them snap. The weight that had been sitting on his chest, the cursed contract demanding a woman and specifications, dissolved as if it had never existed. He breathed strange air, air clean of the temple's smell, and looked at his hands in wonder: "It's gone. Sami — the feeling is gone."
Sami yanked his hand back and headed for the bathroom, muttering curses at his luck and the corner of the rug. He washed the wound, wrapped it in gauze, and returned thinking it was just a minor cut. He didn't notice that the color of his right eye had shifted briefly to a meteoric blue. He didn't notice the book now drifted behind him — not behind Maytham.
He didn't remember the prophecy.
He didn't remember the book.
He didn't remember anything.
But in the corridors of his subconscious — where words that can never be spoken go to sleep — something had begun to wake.
"You will wipe its dust with your blood — without intent."
—
Sami returned to the room and sat down, his hand wrapped in cloth beginning to spot with dried blood. He looked at Maytham — who was sitting differently now. Spine straighter. Eyes more present.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." A short silence. "Actually — something. That weight that was here..." He touched his chest. "...it's gone."
Sami looked at him without speaking.
"Sami. I think I need to go."
"Where?"
"Handle a few things. Contacts, information, a safe place. We can't run without a plan."
It was perfectly logical. Sami knew that. And yet there was something he wanted to say — some objection, some worry — that he couldn't locate.
"When will you be back?"
"Soon."
"And if Dajja tracks you?"
"He didn't catch me the first time. He won't now."
Sami opened his mouth to reply. The words didn't come. He nodded slowly.
The agreement felt completely natural. Logical. But in a place behind his eyes — in that nameless part — something was watching the conversation and quietly steering it. A hidden hand moving pieces on a board while neither player could see the strings.
Maytham stood. Picked up his jacket.
"Sami."
"Yeah."
"Buy a spare pair of trousers."
Sami laughed despite himself. "Tsk. Get out of here, Dog."
Maytham left. The door closed behind him.
Sami sat alone in the room. He looked at the dark screen. At the empty tray. At his hand wrapped in cloth slowly blooming red.
He felt no pain. Only a quiet pulse, coming from somewhere he didn't know.
He stood, went to the window, pushed the curtain aside. The Basra alley was drowning in the haze of dusk. Maytham's silhouette growing smaller — the walk of a man who had set down a weight and left every ounce of it in this room.
He wanted to go after him. Wanted to change the plan.
But something kept him in place — blurring his thoughts, intercepting words before they reached his mouth. He didn't know what to call it.
He let the curtain fall.
"Tsk... spare trousers."
And the book sat in the corner of the room. Still. Patient. An eye that does not sleep.
—
— End of Chapter Two —