Episode 1 – The Club Night

The bass throbbed like a heartbeat, heavy and relentless, rattling through the crowded club. Lights strobed across the dance floor, slicing the darkness into neon fragments. Layla Hassan moved with the music, her body swaying in rhythm, her sequined red dress catching every burst of light like fire. Her long dark hair clung to her shoulders, damp with sweat, and her painted lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The men surrounding her whistled, some reaching out to brush against her arm or waist as she twirled past. She laughed, pretending it was fun, pretending the attention meant something. Inside, though, a familiar emptiness yawned. She had drowned it with three shots of vodka already, but it still lingered.

“Another round, Layla?” one of her friends shouted over the music, shoving a drink into her hand.

Layla took it without hesitation, tossing it back in one gulp. The liquid burned her throat, but she welcomed the fire. “Of course! Tonight we live!” she shouted back, her voice slurred with giddy energy.

Her friends cheered, but in the corner of her mind, Layla wondered if this was living—or if it was just another night of dying slowly, piece by piece.

The hours blurred. The laughter grew louder, faker. By the time she stumbled toward the exit, the cold night air slapped her in the face, cutting through the haze of alcohol. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, her high heels clacking unsteadily against the pavement.

“Taxi!” she called, raising her arm. A car sped past without stopping. Her vision doubled, and the street tilted dangerously. She grabbed onto a lamppost, giggling at her own clumsiness.

That’s when she heard it.

“Miss, are you alright?”

The voice was deep, steady, carrying a weight of concern that startled her. She turned her head and squinted.

A man stood a few feet away, illuminated by the yellow glow of the streetlight. He wasn’t dressed like the men she knew—no flashy clothes, no cologne that could choke a room. Just dark jeans, a simple shirt, and a grocery bag in his hand. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his posture was upright, cautious. His eyes flickered toward her only briefly before lowering to the ground, as though he was deliberately avoiding staring at her.

Layla burst into laughter. “Do I look alright to you?”

The man hesitated. He should have walked away. Everything about him screamed that this situation was trouble. But something—conscience, faith, maybe both—kept him rooted.

“You don’t seem in a condition to be alone,” he said slowly. “Do you have someone I can call?”

She snorted. “What are you, my babysitter? Don’t worry, I can handle myself.” She tried to push away from the lamppost, but her heel caught on the edge of the pavement. She stumbled forward, and before she could hit the ground, his hand shot out.

Warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, steady and firm.

Layla blinked up at him. She had been touched by plenty of men before—grabbing, pulling, claiming—but never like this. His grip wasn’t greedy. It was careful, respectful, as if his only intention was to keep her from falling.

“Careful,” he murmured. His brows furrowed in quiet concern. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Something about his tone pierced through the alcohol fog. She let out a shaky laugh. “Wow… you didn’t even try to—” she waved her free hand vaguely “—take advantage? What’s wrong with you?”

The corner of his lips tugged into the faintest smile. “Nothing’s wrong. That’s what’s supposed to be right.”

Layla tilted her head, studying him. His words didn’t make sense. No man she knew ever turned down an opportunity like this.

He adjusted his hold, releasing her wrist as soon as she steadied. “Listen,” he said, his voice softer now. “My apartment is nearby. You can rest there until you’re sober. I won’t… do anything. Just water and a safe place. That’s all.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why should I trust you?”

“You don’t have to.” His gaze stayed fixed on the ground. “But I can’t walk away knowing you might fall into worse hands tonight.”

For the first time, Layla didn’t know how to respond. His sincerity felt strange. Almost unsettling.

“You’re… weird,” she muttered, but her legs wobbled again, and she instinctively reached for his arm.

He stiffened at the contact, then carefully offered his elbow for support. “This way,” he said quietly.

They walked through the quiet streets, their footsteps echoing. Layla leaned on him when her balance failed, half-annoyed at her weakness, half-confused at his patience. She noticed how he kept a careful distance, guiding her without holding her too close. Most men would have used this moment to wrap their arms around her waist. He didn’t.

When they reached his apartment, he unlocked the door and stepped aside, letting her enter first. The place was modest, almost bare. Clean white walls, a small couch, a simple dining table. The only decoration was a framed Arabic calligraphy on the wall: “Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem”.

The air smelled faintly of soap and something warm, like cardamom. Layla blinked, suddenly aware of how different this place was from the smoky chaos she had just left.

He guided her to the couch and placed a glass of water on the table. Then, he stepped back, putting deliberate space between them. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “So… you’re really not gonna try anything? Not even a kiss?”

His head snapped up, eyes wide, then he quickly looked away. “Astaghfirullah,” he muttered under his breath. “No. That’s not who I am.”

Her lips parted. No one had ever said that to her before.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly.

“Omar,” he replied, still avoiding her gaze. “And you?”

She smirked lazily. “Layla. Like the night.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Meaning? But he only nodded. “Rest, Layla. You’re safe here. The guest room is down the hall if you’d rather not sleep on the couch.”

She tilted her head. “You’re too polite. It’s almost creepy.”

He gave a short, almost amused exhale. “Good night.” With that, he retreated to his room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Layla sat in silence, the glass of water trembling in her hand. The silence pressed against her ears, unfamiliar and heavy. No music. No laughter. No men’s hands pulling at her. Just quiet.

And strangely… it was the most unsettling night of her life.

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