The Hunter | Overwatch

Chapter 81: Dissonance

A Few Days Later, Cairo, Egypt, 12:30 P.M.

The aircraft’s engines whined as they cooled, the metallic hum blending into the chorus of a living city. Shaun stepped onto the pavement, the heat of the Cairo sun pressing against his back like a heavy hand. The light was almost blinding, reflecting off sunbaked buildings and the windshields of dusty cars. Sweat gathered at the  nape of his neck, but he ignored it. His muscles were tight, his senses on high alert, his instincts unwilling to relax even in a place so full of life.

Unlike the warzones he had grown accustomed to—ruined cities, bullet-ridden streets, the eerie silence of abandoned battlefields—this place was alive.

The streets pulsed with movement. Merchants called out in Arabic, haggling over prices in open-air markets crowded with woven baskets of dates, pyramids of fresh pomegranates, and skewers of sizzling meat roasting over charcoal flames. The scent of cumin, cardamom, and grilled lamb thickened the air, mixing with the diesel fumes of honking cars stuck in a never-ending battle for space on the congested roads. Pedestrians weaved between the vehicles with the ease of those who had done so their entire lives, paying little attention to the chaos of the honking and cursing drivers.

A man in a crisp white galabeya sat on a wooden stool by a street corner, lazily fanning himself while drinking from a glass of hot mint tea. Beside him, a vendor arranged a row of golden, sesame-covered loaves on a metal tray, occasionally shouting, “Aish baladi! Fresh bread! Come, come!” A woman in a black abaya bargained with him, shaking her head at his price, her young son tugging impatiently at the hem of her robe, begging for sweets from the stall next door.

From a nearby café, the sounds of an old radio crackled through the air, playing a classic Umm Kulthum song. A group of older men sat around a backgammon board, thick plumes of shisha smoke curling in the warm air. Their voices were a blend of laughter and playful arguments as one of them slammed a piece onto the board and muttered something that made the others erupt into chuckles.

Shaun pulled his hood lower over his face, the fabric of his worn jacket brushing against his cheek. Here, he wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t a hero, wasn’t even the leader of Overwatch. He was just another traveler, another nameless face in the sea of people.

But the illusion didn’t last.

A sudden chill ran down his spine, sharp and unnatural against the desert heat.

Then, he heard it.

Laughter.

At first, it was faint, nearly swallowed by the noise of the city. But it didn’t belong here.

It was wrong.

The sound slithered into his ears, a twisted, mocking chuckle that sent his pulse hammering.

Shaun’s gaze darted around, searching.

But nothing was out of place. The vendors kept shouting their prices, the families walked by in cheerful conversation, and the city continued to breathe as if nothing had happened.

No one else hears it.

His jaw clenched. He forced himself to keep walking.

Cairo was an old city, its bones built upon the weight of history. Every stone, every alleyway, every towering minaret had witnessed countless lives come and go. The narrow streets were a maze, their walls covered in faded graffiti and peeling election posters. Cats lounged on doorsteps, their golden eyes half-lidded as they basked in the afternoon sun. Somewhere nearby, a boy’s voice rang out—

“Ya’ Ahmed! Come on! You’re the goalie!”

Shaun turned his head slightly. In a small alleyway, a group of barefoot children kicked a dented football against a graffiti-covered wall, their laughter genuine and unburdened. One of the smaller boys, presumably Ahmed, groaned as he reluctantly took his place between two stacked crates, arms stretched out wide.