“Welcome to the operating room, it seems we’ve got ourselves a new worker,” she heard the voice of a young man in her ears. Even before she turned to look at them, her body began to tremble. Alarmed, she spun around and hurriedly used her hand to brush away the strands of hair that had fallen across her eyes.

“Inna lillahi wa’inna ilayhirraji’un!” she cried. Nothing prompted her to say that except for the horrifying sight before her: young women lying naked on hospital beds like patients, some of them even pregnant—twins in some cases—pitifully exposed. Towering giants stood over them in their black surgical garments, holding theater tools.

“Please, my sister, help me! Get me out of here before they kill me!” one heavily pregnant woman pleaded, her eyes wide. Her belly was swollen, clearly at nine months. They had stripped her bare, her shame completely uncovered.

Angel’s heart sank. Hasbunallahu wa ni‘mal wakeel, La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah. Allahumma ajirni fi musibati wa akhlif li khayran minha… she muttered, trembling and broken. The woman wept, begging Angel to save her if not for her own sake, then at least for the child inside her. Angel too broke down in tears, speechless.

One of the giants came toward her, a knife in his grip. Even before he spoke, she understood his intention. Terrified, she tried to flee to the door, but before she could reach it, he grabbed her arm with terrifying force and dragged her to the pregnant woman’s bed.

He shoved the knife into Angel’s hand, gripping her tightly, and tried to force her to slice the woman’s belly open. Angel nearly fainted from terror. She begged Allah to take her life before such a thing could happen. Never in her life had she regretted being born until now. She wailed, struggled, screamed, but the giant pinned her and used her own hands to cut into the pregnant woman.

Blood gushed out like water from a broken pipe, splattering over Angel’s face and even into her mouth. The baby inside could not survive—the giant sliced it apart in two before her very eyes. Angel cried in agony, feeling as though she had committed murder with her own hands.

Her voice cracked in despair as she ran aimlessly toward escape:

“I am doomed! I have killed an innocent life! Allah will never forgive me! I have destroyed His gift—an innocent woman and her child! Woe to me…!”

She clutched her head, drenched in blood, darkness overwhelming her mind and soul.

The giants around her only laughed heartily, continuing their grotesque surgeries, slicing into humans as if they were animals.

With a broken voice, Angel cursed them:

“Allah will never leave you. You tyrants! From this world itself you will taste the harvest of your wickedness. By Allah, I will be your doom—you will shed tears of blood the way you’ve made me shed mine. You will not escape!”

Overcome with grief, she clutched her own throat as if to strangle herself, but before she could, another massive giant snatched her up like a ragdoll, carrying her away on his shoulder. He brought her into a vast hall where nearly thirty red-robed sorcerers stood before their demonic idol. They chanted in a foul, corrupted language that pierced her ears.

They stripped her naked except for her undergarments, ignoring her shame. But Angel’s only thought was for the little flask of Zamzam water she had hidden in her uniform’s pocket. If she lost it, there would be no hope.

The sorcerers poured bowls of rancid human blood over her, making her gag as its stench filled her nose and mouth. They smeared her body with it as though performing a grotesque ritual bath. She nearly lost her sanity, but she did not die—Allah had not decreed her death yet.

When they were finished, the giant carried her again, throwing her onto a lavish bed in a luxurious chamber—completely out of place in this prison of horrors. He left her there, broken, bloodied, and without her Zamzam water.

That was Angel’s night. Her fate hung in darkness—she could not meet Danish, and even if she did, would she recognize him in her state? Without her Zamzam water, how could she survive? What would become of Azeeza? What would old Zafreen do to them?

---

Meanwhile, her siblings who anxiously awaited her return were in turmoil. Morning had come, and Angel had not returned. They stayed hidden in Old Tamira’s room, afraid to be discovered.

“What should we do? If we stay here, they might catch us. But if we leave, they’ll suspect us,” Deeja whispered.

Their fear grew, until suddenly—Zafreen appeared in their room, staff in hand, smiling coldly. Panic spread among them as they realized she knew too much.

Zafreen laughed manically, mocking them, then revealed her hideous form: her body scarred, her chest unnatural, her private parts grotesquely masculine. The girls recoiled in horror.

She declared openly: “It’s not you men I want—it’s the women.”

Terrified, the girls begged her to spare them. But she overpowered them, dragging Azeeza and Jemimah from under the bed, stripping them, and assaulting them brutally. Their screams filled the room, their brothers outside helpless, the door sealed by Zafreen’s sorcery.

One by one, Zafreen violated the girls, leaving them broken, bloody, barely breathing. Only Batul remained standing, eyes red with tears, watching her sisters collapse lifelessly.

Driven by desperation, Batul seized a magical dagger from the bookshelf—Tamira’s old gift to Danish—and stabbed Zafreen through the eye. But to Batul’s horror, the wounds sealed instantly without bleeding.

Enraged, Zafreen pinned Batul down, crushing her with supernatural strength. Just as Batul’s life seemed about to end, Zafreen felt a sudden heavy blow to the back of her head—someone had struck her from behind…