Cairo, in the moonlight, is a city caught between time and defiance.

  As I strode through its nocturnal veins, the streets whispered stories etched into every stone. I passed beneath the towering silhouette of the Cairo Tower, its lattice design stabbing upward like a spear against the sky, a symbol of ambition forged in concrete and steel. Its shadow fell across the cracked pavement in jagged symmetry, reminding me of the fractured dreams that paved the city.

  The scent of street food—grilled corn, sizzling liver, and ancient spices—mingled with the metallic sting of car exhaust. Tuk-tuks zipped by like iron mosquitoes, and the neon signs of tired shisha cafés flickered in protest against the dark. I walked past Sadat Metro Station, a modern catacomb beneath the city’s pulse, where the trains roared like caged beasts. I stared down the staircase but didn’t descend. My wallet was empty, but so was my fear. My path was not below, but ahead.

  Past the urban sprawl, Cairo gave way to silence. And then, to sand.

  Before me stretched the Cairo-Ismailia Road—a merciless artery of asphalt flanked by nothing but desert and the whispering ghosts of forgotten caravans. The road itself was cracked and sun-bleached, bordered by dunes that rippled under the moonlight like the folds of a sleeping giant.

  I kept walking. My Crocs slapped the concrete in rhythm with my heartbeat. The Rubik’s Cube twisted in my hands, an impossible riddle for an impossible night. I turned the red face once, twice—then paused.

  Something was wrong.

  From the corner of my eye, in the shifting sands, I saw a figure—small, trembling.

  And then—it pounced.

  A monstrous, hulking form of matted grey fur and gleaming fangs. A Dire Wolf, easily the size of a motorbike, launched itself from the dunes with primal hunger in its eyes. It tackled the child, pinning him with a savage growl that rumbled like thunder through the wasteland.

  Without hesitation, I grabbed a jagged pebble from the roadside and hurled it with sniper precision. It struck the wolf on the snout. Its head snapped toward me, yellow eyes narrowing with fury.

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  And then... both of our stomachs growled.

  This wasn’t just a fight. It was a duel of hunger.

  Only one of us would eat tonight.

  ---

  The Battle: Man vs. Beast

  The Dire Wolf lunged, jaws wide enough to bite a man in half. I sidestepped, narrowly dodging the snap of its fangs, and countered with a flying knee straight to its temple. It staggered back, snarling, blood mixing with drool.

  It pounced again—I ducked and rolled beneath its massive torso, kicking upward into its ribs with all the fury Cairo had gifted me. The wolf yelped, spun, and lashed out with a claw that tore across my arm, drawing blood.

  I grinned.

  Pain was part of the ritual now.

  I charged, feinting left, then driving my Croc-covered foot into its snout. It bit down on my shoe—and paused. Confused. It had bitten into plastic. An unfamiliar material. Its moment of hesitation was fatal.

  I pulled my 7x7 Rubik’s Cube—now smeared with sweat and blood—and hurled it directly into its eye socket. It howled, retreating blindly. I climbed a dune, using the high ground to leap, dagger-style, onto its back. My fists found its skull, again and again, until the beast slumped to the dust, breathless and broken.

  I stood over its corpse, panting. The silence returned. The desert accepted my offering.

  ---

  Later That Night…

  A fire crackled beneath the stars. The Dire Wolf’s meat roasted on makeshift skewers—its scent wild, gamey, and strangely sweet. The boy sat beside me, his eyes reflecting the flames but not yet their warmth.

  “So,” I said, licking grease from my fingers, “what’s your name?”

  He looked down at the sand for a long moment.

  “When I was born,” he said, voice brittle, “bandits raided our camp. Killed my parents. Took me in. Raised me. But they never gave me a name.”

  I stared at him—just a kid, maybe ten or eleven, with a stare older than mountains.

  “Well,” I said, throwing a bone into the fire, “I’m gonna call you Gary.”

  He blinked. “…Gary?”

  “Yeah. Sounds like someone who eats Dire Wolf for dinner.”

  He nodded, then—miraculously—smiled. It was small, like a spark before the blaze, but it was real.

  That night, under an indifferent sky, we devoured the beast that tried to kill us. And when dawn kissed the horizon, Gary walked beside me—no longer a nameless orphan, but a soldier of this ridiculous, dangerous mission.