"Ouchhh! Ouchhh!" Evan yelped, dropping his coffee cup onto the desk.
The brown liquid splashed everywhere — on the papers, on the keyboard — but Evan barely noticed.
His mind was somewhere else.
Ashik, sitting just a few seats away, jumped up.
"Bro, calm down, calm down!" he said, rushing over with a handful of tissues. "This witch can't flee that easily! Maybe there's another trap. Maybe the news is fake. Don't lose it yet."
But Evan wasn't listening.
His eyes were glued to the TV screen hanging in the corner of the office.
"Breaking News: The Prime Minister has fled to the neighboring country following the uprising toward her residence..."
A heavy silence fell over the office.
Even the humming of the old AC felt too loud now.
Every CB officer — once proud servants of the regime — stood frozen, not knowing what to say, not knowing what future awaited them now.
Rana, Evan's immediate senior, broke the heavy silence. "If this is true, we better get ready. No doubt, we were the top dogs of her government."
Someone dropped a pen on the floor.
Another officer quietly turned off his computer.
One by one, the room began to crack — the fear slipping in.
Evan couldn't move.
He was trapped inside his own mind.
Sixteen years.
Sixteen years under the shadow of a monster.
Sixteen years since they killed his father and buried the truth under thick files and locked doors.
Sixteen years of his mother living in fear, checking over her shoulder every night.
Sixteen years of silence.
And now, that monster was running away.
Not with a bang.
But with a coward's flight.
The last thirty-six days flashed before Evan's eyes — the students filling the streets, the endless nights of chanting and marching, the banners, the blood, the tear gas — the hope that refused to die.
He remembered the secret meetings, the hurried calls, the encrypted messages.
He remembered passing files to journalists in the dead of night, slipping through security cameras, erasing his own tracks. While his colleagues were busy hunting protesters, Evan was fighting his own war.
And now... this was the result.
The empire of fear collapsed, and its queen fled like a rat.
Was it victory?
Was it an end?
Or just the beginning of something even darker?
Before Evan could decide, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket.
He jumped.
The sudden sound felt like a gunshot in the silence.
He answered.
"Mom?" he said, his voice barely a whisper.
For a moment, he heard only heavy breathing.
Then, his mother's voice came — small, shaking.
"S-someone... wants to talk to you."
Before Evan could say anything, there was a sharp snatching sound.
Someone ripped the phone from her hands.
A new voice, cold and calm, spoke.
"Evan Baydoun..."
Evan knows this voice...
Evan gripped the phone tighter, feeling the blood drain from his face.
"Don't get too happy."
The voice chuckled — a dry, mocking sound.
"They tore down the throne, but the chains around your neck are still ours. Don't forget who tightened them."
The call ended.
For a long second, Evan just stood there.
Staring at the phone like it was a grenade about to explode.
Evan's hand clenched into a fist so hard.
They were coming for him.
Maybe they had been watching him all along.
Maybe they knew everything.
A soft memory floated up —
His father's warm hand on his shoulder.
His father's last words:
"No matter how dark it gets, son... you must be the light."
If justice wasn't given,
then he would carve it out with his own hands.
For his father.
For his own.
The war wasn't over.
It had just begun.