I. The King of Wasted Time
The sun hovered lazily over the streets of Tunis, casting long shadows across the worn-down buildings and uneven pavement. The afternoon heat smothered the city like an overprotective mother, squeezing the life out of anything that dared to move too fast.
But Ahmed had no such problem.
He was not moving fast. In fact, he was not moving at all.
Slumped in his usual chair at the maqha, Ahmed shuffled a deck of worn-out playing cards, his fingers moving with practiced boredom. A half-empty cup of qahwa arbiya sat next to him, long since gone cold.
Across from him, Rafik, his so-called best friend—or perhaps just his worst influence—leaned back, balancing a cigarette between his fingers like a philosopher about to deliver a great revelation. He was the kind of man who always had something to say, even when no one asked.
"You ever think," Rafik mused, blowing out a lazy puff of smoke, "that maybe we're... I dunno, wasting our lives?"
Ahmed didn't even look up. "No."
"No?" Rafik frowned. "You answered too fast. That means you have thought about it."
Ahmed flicked a card onto the table with the grace of a man who had truly mastered the art of indifference. "If you think about wasting time, doesn't that mean you're also wasting time?"
Rafik blinked. "Damn. That was deep."
"Of course it was. I have nothing but time to think."
The maqha was alive with its usual symphony: the sound of clinking glasses, old men arguing about politics as if they were world leaders, and the occasional shout from the owner yelling at a teenager for trying to leave without paying.
It was the same every day.
And yet, Ahmed had no complaints—well, no complaints about this. He liked his routine. He liked coming here, playing solitaire, drinking cheap coffee, and pretending the outside world didn't exist. It was simple.
It was predictable.
It was safe.
And yet, something was missing. Something gnawed at him in the back of his mind, like a mosquito buzzing in his ear.
Something he couldn't quite name.
II. The Curse of the Solitaire King
"You lost again," Rafik smirked, watching as Ahmed scowled at his cards.
"The game is rigged," Ahmed muttered.
"You're playing alone."
"Exactly. And I still lost. That's how I know life is against me."
Rafik snorted. "Bro, maybe if you put as much effort into finding a job as you do into losing at solitaire, you wouldn't be broke."
Ahmed shot him a glare. "A job? Doing what? Serving coffee to sweaty old men? No thanks. I have dignity."
"Dignity doesn't pay rent," Rafik pointed out.
Ahmed waved a hand dismissively. "Neither does my landlord, apparently, because he hasn't thrown me out yet."
"That's because your mother still pays for you."
Ahmed flinched as if Rafik had stabbed him in the heart. "That was uncalled for."
"It was facts."
Ahmed sighed dramatically. He hated it when Rafik made sense. It was unnatural.
III. The Wedding Invitation
Before Ahmed could formulate a brilliant counterargument (which, in his mind, was just ignoring the topic altogether), his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen. A message from Omar, an old friend he hadn't spoken to in months:
"Bro, don't forget my wedding tomorrow! If you don't show up, you're dead to me."
Ahmed groaned. Weddings. He hated weddings.
They were loud. They were crowded. And worst of all...
They were expensive.
"Bad news?" Rafik asked, sipping his espress.
"Worse," Ahmed muttered. "A wedding."
Rafik raised an eyebrow. "That's... not exactly 'end of the world' news, bro."
"It is when you're broke."
"Whose wedding?"
"Omar's."
Rafik whistled. "Damn. You have to go."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, Omar will tell everyone you ignored his wedding, and then you'll be that guy."
Ahmed frowned. "What guy?"
"The guy who skipped a wedding and now everyone thinks he's a selfish bastard."
Ahmed sighed. "Fine. I'll go. But I'm not bringing a gift."
"That's even worse!" Rafik gasped. "No gift?! You might as well spit in the groom's face!"
"Bro, I have nothing to give."
Rafik thought for a moment. "Get him something small. Like chocolate."
Ahmed's expression darkened. "Do I look like a man who spends money on chocolate?"
"You look like a man who doesn't spend money on anything."
"Exactly."
Rafik rolled his eyes. "Just... go to the supermarket, buy something, and shut up."
Ahmed sighed. "Fine, fine. I'll go tomorrow before the wedding."
"Good. And maybe, maybe you'll do something interesting for once in your life."
Ahmed scoffed. "Like what? Get hit by a car on the way there?"
"If that happens, can I have your phone?"
"Get out."
IV. Fate Has Other Plans
The next evening, Ahmed dragged himself out of his house, already regretting his decision.
The sky was an inky blue, streetlights flickering like dying fireflies. The supermarket was only a few blocks away, its fluorescent sign buzzing with artificial life.
Ahmed rubbed his eyes, yawning. He had stayed up too late at the maqha again. Maybe he should grab some snacks too. Something cheap.
He reached for the door handle and—
Everything went black.
For a brief, terrifying moment, it felt like he was falling. No sound. No gravity. Just an overwhelming sensation of being sucked into nothingness.
Then—
A flash of light.
A burst of heat.
And the distant sound of voices...
Speaking a language he did not understand.
V. Welcome to the Unknown
When Ahmed opened his eyes, he was no longer standing in front of a supermarket.
He was lying on the ground, staring up at a sky that was not his own.
Strange trees loomed above him, their leaves glowing faintly in the twilight. The air smelled different—crisp, electric, filled with something... wrong.
And surrounding him—
People.
Dressed in robes, armor, and bizarre clothing straight out of a fantasy movie.
They were talking. Shouting. Pointing at him.
Ahmed sat up, blinking in confusion. His head throbbed. His body ached.
And then—
A man with a long beard stepped forward, speaking in a deep, commanding voice.
Ahmed stared at him.
Then, he opened his mouth and said the only logical thing his brain could come up with:
"WHAT THE F* IS HAPPENING?!"**
Silence.
Every single person stared at him.
The bearded man frowned, then spoke again in his strange language.
Ahmed blinked. "Oh, great. Now I'm surrounded by wizards."
More talking. More pointing.
And then—
The bearded man raised his hand.
Ahmed barely had time to react before something huge and glowing shot toward him.
His first instinct?
To scream.
His second instinct?
To complain.
"This is why I don't go to weddings!"
End of Prologue