“I’m looking for the boss. I have an urgent matter to discuss regarding the Najem property, and, more specifically, the new owner.” The draft whistling through the broken transom rattled the drafting tables. Soraya turned toward her husband, whose thumb remained pressed against the gauze over her split skin. The visitor took another deliberate step, adjusting his gold cufflinks. “I am Sayf Al-Khoury. My principals at the corporate tower have been made aware of an *unconventional* acquisition concerning this parcel. We need to settle the title dispute immediately.” The phrasing struck like a warning bell. Tariq’s gaze met the counselor’s for a split second; his free left hand rose, thumb brushing his forefinger once before dropping back down to smooth the cloth over her palm. Al-Khoury blinked, his spine stiffening, then smoothly pivoted his attention toward Soraya. “My apologies,” Al-Khoury said, coating his tone in thin silk. “It appears my paperwork was disordered. So *you* are the registered party, Ms. Najem?” He looked over her chalk-dusted linen shirt and the cracked plaster columns. “Our conglomerate has secured vast rights in the Ghubra Sector. Your firm’s presence represents a liability. Your father’s firm is a crumbling relic, and frankly, an eyesore.” Heat flared across Soraya’s skin. “A relic? My family laid the foundation stones of Qartaj while your board of directors was still trading scrap metal!” She pulled away from the gauze, leaving the linen strip dangling. “You think you can threaten us out of our heritage? Your firm doesn’t own this ground, and our deed is not on the auction block!” Her husband stepped forward, his knuckles brushing her forearm. “Ms. Najem has made our stance clear,” he said, his pitch quiet and heavy as cut stone. “The workshop remains hers. And any obstacle your employers attempt to force through will meet swift resistance.” Al-Khoury offered a clipped nod. “A brave stance for day laborers. Consider this formal notice, Ms. Najem. We will file the injunction tomorrow.” He pivoted on Italian leather heels and walked out into the street, the obsidian vehicle pulling away from the curb without a tire screech. Soraya stared through the cracked glass until the taillights vanished into the harbor fog. “They intend to bulldoze us,” she said through clenched teeth. “They want every trace of my father wiped from the coast.” “They will fail,” Tariq said, pulling the linen tight and tucking the end neatly into the wrap. “You have my word.” Brakes squealed violently out on the pavement. “Clinging to dry rot, as usual,” a sharp, hated voice called from the entryway. Jamil Hawwa leaned against the doorframe, adjusting his charcoal silk tie. His sneer settled on the laborer beside her. “Did you hire a stray mechanic to fix your plumbing, Soraya? Or is this charity case your new board of directors?” Soraya stepped in front of the drafting board. “Get out, Jamil. You’re trespassing.” He stepped over an iron floor grate, his shoes clicking against the grit. “I came as a courtesy to demand you withdraw from the Central Development Bid. The Ghubra project belongs to my consortium. Keep your bid in, and my partners will see your license revoked by Friday.” He leaned in, his cologne sour with gin. “Unless you want to beg for a subcontractor slot.” He grabbed her upper arm, pinching flesh against bone. Soraya twisted backward, wrenching at his fingers. “Take your hands off me!” “Be sensible,” Jamil snarled, wrenching her forward. “Your talent drowned the night you wrecked your car. You’re an empty shell.” Before she could drive her heel into his instep, two heavy shadows detached from the timber storage racks. Omar and his partner stepped into the light with the precision of trained military escort. The lead workman locked a thick grip around Jamil’s collar, yanking him backward. Omar seized his wrist, breaking his grip on Soraya with a sharp lever motion. Jamil gasped as his feet lost traction on the slick floorboards. “Take your hands off me!” Jamil spit, thrashing against their grips. “Do you know what this suit costs?” Neither laborer spoke. Lifting him by the armpits, they hauled him toward the street, his polished oxfords kicking uselessly against the doorframe. Beside the curb sat a rusted iron roll-off bin loaded with wet plaster and discarded drywall. With one coordinated swing, the pair hurled Jamil over the metal rim. The hollow thud of sheet metal clattered down the block, capped by a strangled yell among the demolition debris. Soraya watched from the threshold, her mouth parting in sharp relief. The golden boy of Qartaj architecture lay tangled in wet lime and rotting burlap. He dragged himself over the rusty lip, coat sleeves shredded and gray sludge dripping down his custom collar. Blood seeped from a scrape along his jawline as he pointed a trembling finger past the two guards. “You think this saves you?” he screamed, voice cracking with venom. “Ask that pathetic stray where he really was the night your brakes failed!”

Shadows and Limestone