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The building had once been white, its walls smooth and reflective under a harsher sun. Now it stood gutted and hollow, concrete peeled back and fractured, windows blown out, steel ribs exposed to the sky. Dust drifted lazily through the open air, settling over everything in a thin, suffocating film.
The street was empty for the moment, abandoned except for the distant sound of screaming and gunshots that echoed beyond the horizon. It was quiet in the way battlefields sometimes are, that unnatural pause that feels less like peace and more like something waiting to happen again.
Palestine sat slumped against what remained of the outer wall of a building, his back pressed into rough concrete that scraped through his clothes. His legs were stretched unevenly in front of him, one twisted at an angle that made moving it nearly impossible, the other trembling each time he tried to shift his weight. Pain radiated upward in sharp pulses, bright and demanding, but he treated it like background noise. It was easier to focus on something physical than on the storm tearing through his head.
His breathing came too fast, too shallow, each inhale catching halfway like his lungs refused to cooperate. Dust clung to his lips. Sweat mixed with grime along his temples. His hands lay limp at his sides at first, fingers twitching intermittently, until one of them brushed against something cold beside him.
The dagger lay on the cracked pavement beside him, close to where his arm had fallen limp against the rubble. The blade caught the gray light, and the stains were unmistakably fresh, dark red still wet along the metal’s edge. Older, faded lines marked the metal too, worn into its surface like quiet reminders of things that had already happened. His sleeves were pushed back unevenly, fabric bunched at his elbows, revealing forearms etched with their own history: pale, older scars that twisted faintly under the skin, and newer, sharper ones where blood had still spilled, bright and angry against the dust.
He stared at the dagger with a fixed intensity, eyes wide and unblinking, as if it held every piece of his anger, every shard of his sadness, every loose thread of his unraveling mind. His gaze flickered between rage and sorrow, and a wild, unsteady clarity seemed to hover behind his stare, balancing on the edge of sanity.
The dagger wasn't even his to begin with, once it had belonged to someone else. Its weight carrying echoes he neither wanted nor fully understood, but for some reason, he had kept it anyway; it felt essential to him, despite what the dagger had done to him before he claimed it as his own.
His fingers closed around the blade again instead of the handle, deliberate this time. The edge pressed into his palm without hesitation, reopening skin that was already stained with blood, though not his own. Fresh blood welled immediately, mixing with the blood that had not yet dried from before. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t loosen his grip. He watched the red gather and spill with a steady, burning intensity, his expression hard and unrepentant, as if daring the pain to argue with him. His breathing began to fracture, sharp inhales breaking unevenly against clenched teeth as something inside him finally snapped loose. All the intense emotions in his chest surged without direction, overwhelming and blinding, until the pain in his hand was the only thing keeping him from dissolving completely.
“Look what you did to me,” he muttered into the empty street, his voice hoarse and uneven as if it were cracking around the edges, the words sounding frayed.
His shoulders began to shake, not violently, but steadily, as if something inside him had come loose and wouldn’t settle. He let out a broken laugh that collapsed into something dangerously close to a sob. The sound felt wrong in his own ears.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he said, eyes unfocused, fixed somewhere past the broken building across from him. “I wasn’t always…” He swallowed hard, jaw tightening, but the rest refused to form. The accusation sat heavy in his chest with nowhere to go.
The grip on the blade tightened without him realizing, the sting sharpening, grounding him in a way that felt disturbingly clarifying. He welcomed the sharpness. It cut through the noise in his head and of the chaos that was happening around him, through the memories of shouting, of smoke, of loss, of being cornered again and again until every reaction felt inevitable.
“You push,” he whispered, voice trembling now. “You corner. You take and take and take until there’s nothing left but this.”
His injured leg spasmed, and he sucked in a sharp breath, the pain snapping through him. Still, he didn’t release the dagger.
“I didn’t do this,” he insisted, though the words came softer now, less certain. “You built this inside me. You turned me into this.”
His chest hitched violently, once, twice, then again, and the composure he pretended to have fractured completely. His vision blurred as tears mixed with dust, streaking through grime on his cheeks. He tried to inhale deeply and couldn’t get enough air. The world narrowed until all he could hear was his own pulse hammering against his skull.
"I hate what I become when you're near."
The cracked earth shifted beneath him, the jagged remnants of a broken building looming like a silent witness. Palestine’s injured legs throbbed beneath him, but he barely noticed the pain anymore. His fingers clung to the metal of the dagger, the fresh blood dark against the gray light, the edge biting slowly into his palm. He did not flinch, only stared at it, jaw tight, breath uneven.
A rock clattered against the debris behind him. The sound, sharp and deliberate, made him freeze for a split second. His head snapped up, pupils wide as he quickly wiped his tears away with his bloodied sleeve. “You don’t need to hide,” he said hoarsely, not loud, but steady enough to carry. “If you’re here, then come out.”
Israel stepped out from the shadow of the ruined wall, eyes scanning him like a predator assessing prey. Her boots scrapped against the rubble with a measured rhythm. She didn’t speak at first, only tilted her head, watching. Palestine pushed himself upright despite the protest of his injured legs. He swayed once, then steadied, using the wall behind him to balance. The dagger hung low at his side, not yet raised, his knuckles pale around the handle rather than the blade this time.
“You’re so brave,” she said finally, voice soft and almost amused. “So strong in front of everyone. And yet… I get to see you like this.” Her gaze flicked to the blood on his arms, then back to his face. “I’m honored, truly!"
His jaw flexed. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he replied, breath tight but controlled. “You didn’t earn anything.”
She circled him deliberately, boots crunching against the gravel, slow and deliberate, savoring the tension in his posture. Her gaze flicked to his exposed arms, the pale, uneven lines standing out starkly against his skin. A slow, almost gleeful smile curved her lips. “Oh, look at this,” she murmured, voice soft but venomous, tilting her head as her eyes traced an invisible line along one scar. “All these little scratches of yours… you really think you’re hiding anything? Pathetic, isn’t it? Showing off your pain like some trophy for yourself.” She laughed, quiet and low, the sound crawling into his ears. “I get to see what everyone else never does. I thought you were the oh so brave and strong 'Palestine' … and yet this is what’s underneath. Filthy little secrets, aren’t they?”
Palestine went rigid. The muscles in his shoulders locked, breath hitching despite himself. His fingers clenched around the dagger instinctively, and the blade pressed deeper into his palm. A thin line of fresh blood slid between his fingers. He didn’t look down.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a shout, he didn't nor was able to at such a vulnerable moment for him.
Her expression sharpened, amusement thinning into something colder, almost predatory. “Don’t what?” she asked softly. “Don’t notice? Don’t admit what you do when no one else is around?” She stepped closer, eyes glinting. “You need someone to blame, don’t you? Someone to carry all the weight for you. But those scars... I wasn’t there when you carved them into you, was I?” Her smile twisted, unnervingly calm. “Oh Khaled, I don't even have to touch you anymore! You're doing all my work for me!”
His breathing grew heavier, but he didn’t back away. Instead, he took a step forward, slow and deliberate as his knees threatened to buckle, the space between them closing slightly. It wasn't wild or reckless, but it was just enough to show he wouldn’t retreat. “You don’t get to talk about things you don’t understand,” he said, voice rough but measured. “You don’t get to stand there and dissect me like I’m something you own.”
She studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Own?” she echoed. “No. I don’t own you.” A faint smirk tugged at her mouth. “You hand yourself over without me asking.”
His hand tightened again, and the dagger sank further into his palm. This time he inhaled sharply through his teeth, the pain cutting clean and bright, he was sure he had to get this stitched up after this, but that wasn't the main thought on his mind. He stepped closer still, enough that their distance was no longer safe. He didn’t swing. He didn’t threaten. He simply stood there, trembling but upright.
“I’m still here,” he said, quieter now. “That’s not something you get to take credit for.”
Her eyes dropped briefly to the blood that dripped steadily off of his hand. “Still here,” she repeated. “Bleeding by your own grip.” Her tone shifted then, becoming less playful and more direct. “You say I don’t understand? I understand perfectly. You need someone to fight. Someone to blame. Because if you don’t, you’d have to face what’s actually eating at you.”
His shoulders tensed again, every muscle drawn tight. “You think this is about blame?” he asked, voice low. “You think you’re just an idea I invented? After all what you’ve done to me and my people?!”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stepped into his space fully now, close enough that he could feel her presence without her touching him. “I think,” she said calmly, “that you’re terrified of how much of this is yours.”
“Stop,” he said, breath uneven. “Stop talking like you’re inside my head.”
Her expression hardened, her mock softness vanished entirely. “I don’t need to be inside your head,” she replied flatly. “You make it obvious. You fall apart in front of me every single time.”
His throat tightened, but he refused to look away. Blood dripped steadily to the cracked ground.
“You don’t scare me,” he said, and though his voice trembled at the edges, it did not break. “You don’t get to walk in here and act like you’re the reason I stand or fall. I decide that.”
For the first time, her eyes flickered with something sharper — not amusement, not satisfaction, but irritation.
“Decide?” she repeated, colder now. “Then decide. Drop the blade. Or keep hurting yourself while pretending it’s defiance.”
Palestine’s legs trembled under him, rage and desperation coiling tight in his chest. He lunged forward, dagger raised, aiming to strike her with everything he had. His injured leg gave way completely, and he crashed onto the cracked pavement with a harsh, bone-jarring thud. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, dust and gravel biting into his skin. The dagger scraped and bit into his palm as he hit the ground, blood mixing with grime and grit. He skidded mere inches from her, chest heaving, hand trembling with the heat of his fury. She barely moved, her eyes calm and unblinking, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, as if observing a child flail rather than a man trying to harm her. The sheer impotence of the motion sent another surge of anger rippling through him. He had meant to hurt her, and yet she remained untouchable, untamed by his own violence.
“You’ve decided already?” she asked softly, tilting her head, her voice smooth but laced with quiet amusement. Her eyes flicked to the blood streaking his hand, then back to his fallen form, unshaken, unhurried, as if the very act of him lunging and failing was exactly what she expected.
Silence stretched between them. The wind shifted dust along the broken pavement. His grip trembled. For a long moment, it seemed he might loosen his hand. Instead, he slowly pulled the dagger away from his palm, blood trailing from the deep cut. He didn’t drop it. But he no longer pressed it into himself.
“I don’t need you to witness anything,” he said quietly. “And I don’t belong to this chaos. You don’t get to define what I am.”
She studied him for several long seconds, eyes scanning the blood, the scars, his trembling figure on the rough concrete floor. Her expression was unreadable now, not mocking, not smiling. Just calculating.
“We’ll see,” she said finally, voice calm and stripped of warmth.
She stepped back at last, boots grinding softly against rubble, and turned away without another word.
Palestine lay sprawled on the cracked pavement, every muscle trembling, blood seeping steadily from his palm. He did not call after her. He did not move to strike again. For a moment, he simply stayed there, broken and raw, yet defiant in the small, furious way he could still claim, the dagger resting uselessly at his side, no longer cutting into his own skin.