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ishomieokay · 1 month ago

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And We Made You Pairs (Ch.1)

──── a homelander x arab oc story.

✰ summary - Homelander’s mission in Syria puts him in direct conflict with Noura, an activist working to protect her country from foreign interference. Although their initial encounters are fraught with tension, over time they develop a begrudging respect for one another. Homelander is drawn to Noura’s fearlessness and conviction, while she catches glimpses of humanity in him.

When Noura’s town faces annihilation, Homelander must make a choice. Will he remain the military’s loyal wardog, or will he do something good for once in his life? ao3.

✰ warnings - blood and injury, violence, minor character death, war crimes, breaches of the Geneva Convention, mental health issues, intrusive thoughts.

✰ taglist - @discowizard88, @possiblyafangirl, @sacha1slytherin, @infinetlyforgotten, @redroserabbit. Let me know if you want to be tagged!

A crescent moon hung over Nineveh, casting long shadows across the empty streets. The night was cold, the air crisp. Only a distant hum disturbed the quiet, a low rumble that crept through the small town, growing increasingly louder. Military trucks were approaching. Sporadic bursts of gunfire could be heard, echoing out from an old warehouse downtown.

Homelander hovered above, his silhouette blending with the evening mist. His eyes scanned the building below, tracking the heat signatures of the people inside. For the moment, he remained out of sight, his cape softly rippling in the air. The rebels moved in disorganized patterns, panicking in their attempt to flee. The American troops, advancing under the cover of darkness, had caught them completely off guard. Homelander’s lips curled into a smirk as he watched.

“They always run,” he said to himself, his voice muffled by the blowing wind. He had seen it play out countless times before. Cornered, terrified, clinging to the hope that they could disappear into the endless maze of dirt roads and narrow alleys.

Without warning, he plummeted from the sky, cutting through the air like a knife. He landed with a bone-rattling crash, the ground cracking under his feet. Dust and debris rose outwards, and for a brief moment, the gunfire paused. It was only when the rebels recognized him that the screams began.

Homelander moved forward, striking with the precision of a living weapon. His heat vision flared, slicing through concrete and flesh without remorse. He could hear the panicked cries of the rebels as they scattered, desperately looking for shelter, but it was futile. They would not escape. He blasted through their makeshift defenses, leaving behind craters where men had stood moments ago.

The truth is, he reveled in it—the chaos, the fear, the raw power coursing through him. Here, in this forgotten corner of the world, he could unleash himself completely, without restraint. No cameras, no crowds to appease. Just pure, unfiltered violence. A part of him wished every mission could be like this. He grinned as a neighboring building crumbled, the blast turning it to a smoldering ruin.

He rounded a corner and tore down what remained of a wall, sending bricks and stone flying in all directions. Amid the wreckage, he spotted movement—a flash of color against the gray. A family cowered near the broken remains of their home. The mother used her body as a shield to protect her young son while her husband clutched her arms, trying to help them stand. At the sight of him, their faces contorted in terror. Homelander frowned. The boy held a stuffed animal, clinging to it as if it might protect him from the nightmare that had descended from the sky.

Homelander hesitated, his expression unreadable as he studied them. He could hear the woman’s labored breathing, the quick, shallow gasps of fear. The boy’s wide, unblinking eyes reflected the crimson glow of his heat vision, ready to burn at a moment’s notice.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Homelander said softly, almost to himself. It would be simple enough to end them, to leave no one behind to whisper of the horror that had come in the night. No witnesses meant no complications. It was standard procedure.

“Who’d believe you, anyway?” He said in the end, shrugging. He let the heat die down in his eyes and turned away, leaving them huddled within the collapsed ruins of the building. With a flick of his cape, he launched himself back into the air, allowing the fearful whispers to fade into the distance.

He tore through the rest of the town with brutal efficiency, leaving in his wake the echoes of crumbling buildings and the flare of explosions against the dark sky. By the time the last of the rebels fell, he was sweating and breathing hard, adrenaline still thrumming through his veins. He paused for a moment. His gaze drifted across the shattered remains of Nineveh, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When he descended, the rest of his platoon had already re-grouped. “Howdy, boys? I think we’re done here. Couldn’t have asked for a better team,” he said, giving a cocky military salute. He wasn’t their leader — not really. That didn’t stop them from disregarding established hierarchies whenever Homelander tried to act as such, though. He gave them plenty of reasons to, every time they went out into the field.

“Go get some rest, and remember. You guys are the real heroes!”

Noura clutched the edge of her windowsill, her breath fogging the glass as she tried to distinguish what was happening outside. The air vibrated with the hum of distant helicopters, their rotors slicing through the dark. Explosions rumbled like distant thunder, making the building tremble beneath her feet. Each shockwave sent a jolt through her body, as if the earth itself recoiled from the violence tearing through Nineveh.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Through the thick veil of dust that clouded the streets, she could catch but glimpses of what transpired below. The normally quiet town was unrecognizable - plumes of smoke rose from collapsed roofs, decimated buildings, and burning vehicles. Cries of panic and the roar of falling debris reached her, mingling with the distant commands of soldiers as they spread through the town. Noura’s heart pounded in her chest, the amalgamation of sounds drowning out all rational thought.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye—a figure moving through the haze, swift and precise. It didn’t move like a soldier, didn’t duck or scramble for cover. It moved with purpose. Her breath hitched as she recognized the outline of a cape fluttering behind him, streaked with ashes and blood.

Homelander.

Noura’s fingers tightened on the windowsill until her knuckles turned white. She could make out his face now, framed by the flickering light of a nearby fire. His expression was cold, detached. He contemplated the street in silence, as if savoring the destruction he had wrought. Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted—straight up to where she stood.

Noura’s pulse quickened, a wave of icy fear washing over her. She felt exposed, as if he could see right through the thin glass, past the shadows of her apartment, into the raw terror she tried to conceal. For a moment, neither of them moved, their gazes locked across the gulf of darkness and smoke that separated them.

Homelander’s expression remained impassive, but something flickered behind his eyes, a glimmer of curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a strange new creature he’d stumbled upon. It wasn’t the look of a man who saw a frightened civilian, but that of a predator, sizing up its prey.

Noura’s hands shook as she reached up to adjust her hijab, pulling the fabric tighter around her face. She didn’t know why she did it—some instinctive need to shield herself, to cover her fear beneath the familiar folds. Her fingers trembled against the cloth as she held his gaze, refusing to look away. Homelander gave her one last, long look. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he turned and vanished into the shadows of an alley.

Noura’s legs gave away, and she stumbled back from the window, clutching her chest as she gasped for air. She could still see his face in her mind, the eerie calmness in his eyes as he surveyed the destruction around him. It was as if the suffering, the broken bodies, the cries for help—none of it mattered to him. He was above it all, merciless. Unrepentant.

Her fear gave way to a fierce, burning anger that clawed its way up her throat, making her want to cry and scream. She couldn’t afford to give in to that, though. Not now. The ground still shook with distant blasts, and she could hear the sounds of her neighbors outside, their voices rising in frantic shouts as they searched the rubble for survivors. Noura pushed herself to her feet, wiping away the tears she hadn’t realized were streaming down her cheeks. She grabbed a flashlight and rushed out of her apartment, her feet carrying her down the crumbling stairwell and into the street.

She joined the neighbors who had already begun to dig through the ruins. Their hands were bloodied and raw from pulling away debris. Noura felt the sting of blisters forming on her palms, but she ignored the pain. Instead, she focused on the weight of each broken stone, the sharp edges digging into her skin. She forced herself to keep moving, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps.

There, beneath the wreckage, she found the arm of a child reaching out. She pulled with all her strength, helped by another pair of hands—an elderly man, his face streaked with dust and ashes. Together, they freed the little girl, her cries muffled against Noura’s chest as she held her close.

Noura glanced back toward the shadows where Homelander had disappeared. Her mind replayed the memory of his cold eyes, the way he had looked at her—like she was nothing, like they were all nothing. She felt her resolve harden, settling like iron in her bones. He thought he could come here and destroy their homes without consequence. He thought he could hide behind that cape, pretend to be a hero while leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. Well, she wouldn’t let him.

“I will make them see,” she whispered to herself, cradling the little girl as she wept. “I will make the whole world see what you really are.”

Noura held onto that thought, clinging to it like a lifeline as the night wore on. It was her shield, her only weapon against the terror that still clawed at the edges of her mind. She wouldn’t let it consume her. She moved from one ruin to the next, her hands bloody and her heart burning with a new, unyielding purpose.

The first light revealed the full extent of the damage—streets filled with rubble, overturned vehicles smoldering in the distance, and crumbling buildings that sagged against each other like wounded giants. The mosque lay in ruins, its once proud minaret snapped in half like a twig. Smoke drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of ashes and blood, and Noura breathed it in, feeling the sting in her lungs.

She stood at the entrance of her apartment building, her legs trembling beneath her. Her brother, Amir, hovered beside her. His left arm was wrapped in a hastily applied bandage, his face drawn with exhaustion. He glanced at her with a frown. “We should leave. There’s nothing left for us here.”

Noura shook her head, hands clenching at her sides. “I’m staying. They need help.” She gestured to the street below, where families sifted through the wreckage, calling out names in a desperate search for their loved ones. The sound of a mother’s wail as she cradled a lifeless child in her arms cut through the air, sharp and raw. It dug into Noura’s chest, twisting with each breath she took.

Amir’s grip tightened on her shoulder, trying to pull her away. “You can’t help everyone. The buildings are crumbling, debris is falling all over the place. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Noura planted her feet, though, eyes glistening as she took in the shattered remains of the life they once knew. She remembered playing in the town square as a child, the taste of fresh bread from the bakery on the corner, the sound of the muezzin’s call to prayer that had echoed through the streets every morning. Now, it was all gone, and only devastation remained.

Amir frowned, dropping his hand in defeat. He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly, stepping back. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t do anything reckless.”

“I’ll be fine.” Noura forced a smile, though it felt like a lie.

With a final, reluctant glance, Amir turned and disappeared up the stairs. Noura took a deep breath and walked down the cracked steps, the morning sun casting her shadow long across the dirt road.

As she made her way downtown, she noticed neighbors and acquaintances clustered together in the remnants of their properties. Shattered windows and tumbling walls stretched as far as the eye could see. An old man dug through the rubble with his bare hands, voice hoarse from calling out a name that had gone unanswered. A woman with bloodied feet limped past, clutching a baby to her chest, eyes unseeing.

Noura stopped to offer water and food to those she could. She tore strips of fabric from her own clothes to bandage wounds, wrapping them around arms and legs as gently as possible. With each face she saw, each sob that reached her ears, her resentment only grew. At the main square, people whispered—murmurs about the events of the night before. The stories passed from one person to another like a disease, carrying awe, fear, and bitterness.

“They say he flew down like a devil, tearing through buildings with his bare hands,” an elderly woman whispered, her lips trembling. “It wasn’t human. Nothing human could do that.”

Another man, his voice strained from the fumes he had inhaled, shook his head with disappointment. “They call him a hero back in America. What kind of hero burns down entire towns? What kind of hero leaves children to die under the rubble?”

Noura pulled out her phone. Her grip around it was awfully tight as she recorded what little was left of her neighborhood. She filmed the collapsing mosque, the dilapidated houses, the faces of wandering pedestrians who had lost everything. Her voice wavered as she narrated, words catching in her throat. “This… this is what the American army does in Syria,” she said, forcing herself to keep her hands steady as she panned the camera across the ruins.

She turned the phone toward herself. “They are not here to protect us,” Noura said into the lens. “They are here to destroy and conquer. The world needs to know what happens when foreign powers bring their war to our doorstep. What happens when their heroes come to save us.”

She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her emotions at bay. She couldn’t afford to break down, not now. Not while there was so much that needed to be done. She had to keep moving, keep recording. Anything to take her mind off of everything she had lost. If she couldn’t save her home, she could at least make sure the world wouldn’t forget it.

As she lowered the phone, her thoughts returned to the figure she had seen the night before—Homelander, standing in that dark alley like a monster cloaked in red and blue. A shiver ran through her, but she pushed it aside. Instead, she let her anger steady her. It didn’t matter how powerful he was, or how many people labeled him a hero in the west. She would make sure that he, and everyone like him, answered for what they had done.

A makeshift shelter had been set up in the center of the town square—a temporary refuge built from salvaged tarps and metal beams that had survived the onslaught. As the sun set, the temperature plummeted, and the survivors huddled together for warmth. Their breath misted in the cool night air, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps.

Aid workers moved through the crowd, handing out what little food they had left—small packets of dried bread and canned beans. The lines stretched far, though. The children near the back clung to their mothers’ skirts, already suspecting they would go to bed hungry.

Noura sat cross-legged on the cold ground, her hands stained with blood as she wrapped a clean bandage around a man’s arm. He winced but gave her a grateful nod, clutching his injured limb to his chest. Beside her, Fatima knelt with her head bowed, carefully stitching up a gash on a woman’s leg.

They worked in silence for a while, the sounds of the shelter—muffled whispers, the occasional sob—filling the space between them. Noura glanced at her friend, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled with exhaustion. She opened her mouth to speak, but Fatima beat her to it.

“Are you really going to do it, Noura?” Fatima’s voice was barely a whisper, but the fear in it was unmistakable. She glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting one of the soldiers patrolling the town to appear out of the shadows. “All this talk about protesting, about filming… it’s dangerous.”

Noura set down the bandages and wiped her hands on her clothes. “And what do you want me to do, Fatima? Pretend like this never happened? Pretend that they didn’t come here and tore apart our homes, our lives?” Her voice was harsh, and she forced herself to soften it. It was not Fatima she was angry at. “If we don’t speak up, no one will know the truth. We can’t let them turn us into ghosts.”

Fatime flinched at the bitterness in her words, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she fixed Noura with a pleading look, her eyes glistening in the dim light. “I just… I don’t want to lose you too,” she said softly. “You’re the only family I have left.”

Noura reached out, squeezing Fatima’s hand tightly. “I know, habibti. But I can’t stay quiet anymore. I just can’t.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “They think they can come here, kill our people, and proclaim themselves heroes. They think no one will care because we’re just another war-torn town. But I’m going to make them care. I’m going to make sure the world sees what they’ve done.”

Fatima sighed, dropping her head. “I’m scared for you, Noura.”

“I’m scared too,” Noura admitted, but there was steeliness in her voice. “But I’m more afraid of what will happen if we don’t do anything.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, listening to the rustle of the wind against the makeshift walls of the shelter. A shadow fell over them, and Noura looked up to see Rami Haddad, his expression grim beneath his unkempt beard. The local journalist had been a fixture in Nineveh for as long as she could remember, but the past months had hardened him—made him quieter, more cautious.

“Noura” he said, nodding to her before glancing at Fatima. “Mind if I steal her for a minute?”

Fatima looked between them, worry etched into her face, but she simply nodded and rose to her feet, giving Noura’s shoulder a squeeze before slipping away. Rami took her place on the ground, his gaze sweeping over the wounded around them. “You’re really going through with this, then?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of concern. “The protest in Damascus. The footage. You know they won’t take kindly to it.”

Noura pulled a small, battered phone from her pocket, the screen cracked but still functional. She held it out to him, showing him the videos she had taken—scenes of collapsed buildings, grieving families, the wreckage that had once been their homes. “I need the truth to get out, Rami. I need people to know that Vought’s heroes aren’t saviors—they’re executioners.”

Rami studied the footage in silence for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. He glanced back at Noura, at those big brown eyes, full of determination. His expression softened. “I’ll help you get the footage out,” he said. “And I’ll spread the word about the protest. But you have to understand, Noura, once this gets out… there’s no going back. You’ll be putting a target on your back, on all our backs.”

Noura met his gaze without hesitation. “I know the risks, Rami. I just feel like… I have no other choice.”

He let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. “Alright then. Just… be careful. It’s not just the Americans. The world isn’t kind to people who try to tell the truth.”

She managed a small, tired smile, slipping the phone back into her pocket. “It’s never been kind to us, Rami. But that’s not going to stop me.”

Rami gave her a long, searching look, then nodded. “I’ll reach out to my contacts in Damascus. We’ll make sure this gets seen.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Stay safe, Noura. What you’re doing is dangerous, I won’t lie. It’s going to take some guts, so you better be ready.”

Noura nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle on her shoulders. She knew the path she had chosen wasn’t easy. As Rami disappeared down the street, she turned her gaze back to the people huddled in the shadows of the shelter. Her resolve hardened like steel beneath her skin. They had survived the night. Now, it was time to fight for the days to come.

A military base loomed just outside Nineveh, a fortress of steel and concrete surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. Inside there was a different world—clean walkways, neatly aligned vehicles, and soldiers laughing over trays of scrambled eggs and hot coffee. The air buzzed with the hum of machinery and the distant thump of helicopters on patrol.

In a sleek, sterile briefing room deep within the base, Homelander stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on a large digital map projected onto the wall. General Mark Thompson, a broad-shouldered man with a silver buzzcut and a perpetually stern frown, paced in front of the screen.

“Hell of a job, Homelander. Hell of a job,” Thompson said, his voice carrying the gravelly timbre of someone used to shouting orders across battlefields. He tapped a spot on the map where the town was located. “You took out the core of their operations in one night. This is the kind of show of force that keeps the locals in line—lets them know who’s in charge.”

Homelander nodded, his chest swelling slightly with the praise. He felt the warmth of Thompson’s words seeping into him, a balm for his own bruised ego after the recent dip in his popularity back home. “Just doing what needed to be done, General,” he replied, keeping his tone even. “Can’t have those supervillains thinking they can run wild under our noses.”

“Exactly,” Thompson said. his mouth twisting into a thin smile. He folded his arms across his chest, the rows of medals on his uniform catching the light. “Of course, there were… some unfortunate casualties among the locals. But you know how it is—collateral damage. Sometimes you gotta make necessary sacrifices. We’ll handle any reports that come out. Our PR team’s already spinning the narrative. You’ll come out of it looking like the hero you are.”

Homelander took a moment to absorb the words. Slowly, he nodded along. “Good. It’s important that people back home see the bigger picture. They need to know we’re making progress out here.”

“Don’t worry, son. We’ve got your back.” Thompson gave a curt nod, dismissing him with a firm pat on the shoulder. “Now, go get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

The general turned his attention back to the map. Homelander walked out of the briefing room, still smiling faintly as he basked in the aftermath of the old General’s praise. It felt good to finally be appreciated. As the door slid shut behind him, the chill of the air-conditioned hallway pressed in, though, and the emptiness beneath the accolades began to gnaw at him. It was too quiet. He needed a moment away from the base’s antiseptic order. Homelander wandered down a narrow corridor, finding a quiet corner by one of the windows that overlooked the desert beyond.

The glass pane reflected his image back at him—a tall, imposing figure clad in a red and blue suit, still speckled with traces of blood he hadn’t bothered to wash off. He stared at his own eyes, at the hardness of his expression, and felt the familiar pull in the back of his mind.

“Sloppy,” a voice drawled, low and mocking. Homelander’s reflection in the glass twisted, just slightly, into a smirk that didn’t match his own. “Letting them see you like that. But then again, you liked it, didn’t you? The cries, the horror. Watching them beg and squirm, knowing there’s nothing they can do to stop you.”

Homelander’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He glanced around, ensuring no one else was in earshot, before he muttered under his breath, “They should be thanking me. Those rebels would’ve torn this place apart if I hadn’t stepped in.”

The smirk in the glass grew sharper. “Keep telling yourself that, hot shot. But we both know the truth, don’t we?” The voice was soft, oozing with smug certainty. “You enjoy this. The power, the fear in their eyes… It’s the only thing that makes you feel alive, isn’t it?”

Homelander’s lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to give voice to his nagging doubt. He turned his gaze back out to the endless stretch of desert, where the sun beat down on the unforgiving landscape. The silence between him and the voice in his head stretched, thick with tension, before he forced a dismissive chuckle.

“They need me. The locals, the military, even Vought. None of them could do this without me,” he muttered, as if saying it aloud might make it truer. The voice, his own and yet not, merely scoffed in response.

“They need you… or they’re afraid of you?” It let the question hang in the air, taunting, cutting deeper than Homelander cared to admit. “It’s all a lie, Johnny. A show you put on. It was back home, and it still is now. You know better than anyone that there were no supervillains in that town.”

He took a slow, deliberate breath, pushing away the flicker of doubt, the hint of something he was yet to put a name to. He wasn’t some ordinary man—he was the Homelander. Untouchable, superior. He had a job to do, a role to play, and he wouldn’t let anyone—especially not a voice in his own head—undermine him.

And yet, as he stared out at the desert beyond the base’s pristine walls, the weight of its words lingered.

The underground café was hidden beneath the shell of a bombed-out building, its entrance barely discernible behind a sagging metal door. Inside, the air was thick with the tang of cigarette smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. Shadows clung to the corners, where the locals huddled over tables, whispering about the latest military movements, exchanging fragments of news from the outside world. A dim bulb swung overhead, casting restless light across their faces.

Noura sat across from Rami at a rickety table near the back. His camera lay between them, battered and scratched, his loyal companion in the pursuit of countless war stories. Rami’s face was drawn, his usual wry smile absent as he listened to Noura lay out her plan. Her fingers traced invisible lines on the table as if sketching out her vision on the scarred wood.

“Next week, there’s going to be a press conference in Damascus. It'll be the first time the Syrian government meets with a high level US delegation in years,” Noura said, her voice low but firm. “The eyes of the world will be on us. That’s when we need to stage the protest.”

Rami’s brow furrowed, and he took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing bright in the dim light. He exhaled, the smoke curling upward, mingling with the heavy air. “Damascus is a whole different beast, Noura. It’s not like here. You make noise in the capital, and everyone comes down on you, hard. Our government and the Americans might be at each other’s throat more often than not, but there’s one thing they have in common. They don’t like troublemakers.” He paused, studying her with a critical eye. “You know what happens to those who attract too much attention.”

Noura met his gaze, unflinching. “I know the risks, Rami. But I can’t stay silent. If we don’t speak up, they’ll bury everything—our stories, our town, our lives. They’ll rewrite history while we’re still living it.”

Rami sighed, scratching his forehead. He glanced around the café, where faces turned away from the mere mention of protests. “It’s not just your life you’re risking, Noura. If you do through with this, it won’t just be you they come for.”

“That’s why I need your help. You’ve seen what they did to us. You have the proof, the footage. If we can get this out there, we might have a chance. We might be able to make people care.”

Rami’s eyes softened. There was something like admiration in his gaze, but also skepticism. “All right,” he relented, snuffing out his cigarette in a cracked ashtray. “I told you I’d help and I will. But we do this my way. No reckless speeches, no big signs with your face on them. We’re trying to make noise, but we have to do it carefully.”

Noura nodded, grateful for even this reluctant agreement. They sat in silence as she edited the footage on her phone, translating the Arabic words into English subtitles. Her hands shook slightly as she added the final frames—a shot of the town square, reduced to rubble, followed by a close-up of a child’s doll half-buried in the dirt, one eye missing. She took a deep breath, mildly uncomfortable as she watched a recording of herself speaking into the camera.

“We are not terrorists,” she said, eyes red and face stained with ashes. “We are mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. And we are not going to disappear.”

She posted the video online, her fingers hesitating for only a moment before hitting ‘upload’. Rami watched her with a grim expression, knowing that with this one action, there was no turning back. Noura stared at her phone, feeling her pulse quickening as the video began to circulate. Every second that passed felt like an eternity. She knew that this could be the moment that changed everything—or that it might just be another cry drowned out in the endless noise of war.

The notification chime echoed in the silence, and her heart leapt. It had begun.

The street was cloaked in shadows, lit only by the dull glow of a flickering lamppost. Dust swirled in the night breeze. It was late, and they were the only patrons left in the café. Rami hunched over his laptop, his face illuminated by the screen’s cold light. His fingers flew across the keys, uploading photos and videos of the attack onto his social media platforms.

Noura sat beside him, her own phone in hand, scrolling through the footage she had taken earlier. Her thumb hesitated over the screen, pausing on an image of the collapsed minaret, its broken spire reaching pitifully toward the sky. She swallowed hard, staring at the twisted metal and shattered stone.

“I like this shot,” she murmured, holding her phone out for Rami to see. “We can lead with this. The mosque… they’ll understand what that means, right?”

Rami glanced up, shaking his head slightly. “Not necessarily. It’ll hit hard in Muslim countries, but in America? They’ll call it propaganda. They’ll try to twist it.”

Noura’s jaw clenched. “Let them. The truth is out there now. It’s up to the world to decide what to do with it.”

As Rami continued his work, the café fell into a tense silence, broken only by the baristas cleaning and picking up plates, the distant hum of generators powering the few buildings that still had electricity. Noura’s focus drifted, her mind replaying what happened the night before—Homelander’s blood-soaked figure against the moonlight, the way his eyes had met hers, unflinching, unfeeling. A shiver ran down her spine, and she hugged herself against the chill.

She glanced towards the window, and her breath caught in her throat. On a nearby rooftop, barely visible in the dim light, a figure stood silhouetted against the starless sky. Her heart lurched, and a cold sweat broke out across her skin. It was him. She was sure of it. Watching her, like some monstrous guardian or a predator biding its time.

“Rami…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She reached out, clutching his arm. “Look—up there—”

When she looked again, the rooftop was empty, though. The figure, if it had ever been there at all, had vanished into the darkness.

Rami followed her gaze, frowning. “What is it? I don’t see anything.”

She shook her head, trying to steady her breathing. “Nothing. I… I thought I saw something.”

Rami studied her for a moment, concern furrowing his brow. “Fear can play tricks on the mind, especially at times like this. Danger seems to lurk at every corner. It’s a hazard of the profession,” he said, offering a tight, reassuring smile. “Come on, we’ll be done soon. Then you can go home and rest.”

Noura nodded, though her thoughts remained on the empty rooftop, and the uneasy feeling that had settled in her chest refused to fade. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, leaning over Rami’s shoulder as they reviewed the final uploads. Each image, each frame, was another weapon in their growing arsenal.

As they finished, the weight of what they had done settled between them. The air in the café felt colder. Noura slipped her phone into her pocket.

“Stay safe, Rami,” she said. “We need to be careful.”

“You too, Noura. We’ll meet again soon, when it’s time for the next step.”

They parted ways. Rami disappeared into the shadows of the alleys, his footsteps muffled by the dust. Noura lingered for a moment longer, staring at the spot where she had seen the figure. Was it just her imagination, or had she really glimpsed a presence up there, watching her?

She pushed the thought aside, though her unease clung to her like a second skin. The real fight was just beginning, and there was no time for fear.

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