> "By bowing down, thou shalt not become a Rishi; the pounder in the rice-mill did not ever raise up its head."—Sheikh Nour

  The words of Sheikh Nour echoed in my mind as Gary and I navigated the tumultuous landscape of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. The air was thick with tension, and the ground trembled beneath our feet.

  Suddenly, a voice blared through the loudspeakers:

  > "If a tall man with messy hair, dark complexion, above average build, broad shoulders, and a V taper..."

  A grin spread across my face, recognizing the description.

  > "...inform Israeli authorities immediately. This man is a spy and a kidnapper."

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  My heart sank. "Well, fuck," I muttered, grabbing Gary's hand as we bolted.

  Our escape was short-lived. Ahead, 24 Israeli soldiers stood, weapons raised, eyes locked on us.

  I quickly hid Gary behind a nearby rock. "Stay here," I whispered.

  "WE'RE GOING TO DIE!" he shouted.

  "Nah," I replied confidently. "I'd win."

  The Battle: One Against Twenty-Four

  The first soldier lunged at me, knife in hand. I sidestepped, delivering a swift kick to his midsection, sending him sprawling. Another approached from behind; I ducked, grabbing his arm and flipping him over my shoulder.

  Bullets whizzed past me as I weaved through the chaos, using the soldiers' own momentum against them. A knife grazed my torso, leaving a shallow but stinging cut.

  Pain fueled my resolve.

  I disarmed one soldier, using his weapon to parry attacks from others. The battlefield became a dance, each movement precise and deliberate. One by one, the soldiers fell, until only I remained standing.

  Breathing heavily, I retrieved Gary from his hiding spot.

  "Are they...?" he began.

  "Yeah," I nodded. "Let's keep moving."

  With my shirt torn and blood seeping from the wound, we pressed on, reaching the Lebanese border as the sun began to rise.