The car moved slowly through the thick traffic.
Inside, Hamzah Al Qadir sat quietly, watching the endless line of vehicles stretching ahead of them. The city's morning rush had already turned the road beside the Geothermal Power Plant Research Center into a sea of motionless metal.
Suddenly, his phone rang.
The name flashing on the screen belonged to Bilal Al Harb, the President of Iraq.
Hamzah answered.
"Hamzah? Where are you?" Bilal's voice came through the line. "We have a meeting today, and I want you here."
Hamzah leaned slightly back in his seat and replied calmly.
"Sir Bilal, at the moment I'm stuck in traffic on the road next to the Geothermal Power Plant Research Center. I'm heading toward the airport."
There was a brief pause.
"I'm actually leaving for Canada."
On the other end of the call, the president sounded surprised.
"Canada? Why Canada?"
Hamzah answered without hesitation.
"President William Brown asked to meet me. I'll be back in four days."
Bilal remained silent for a second before asking another question.
"Are you traveling alone?"
Before Hamzah could answer, the voice of Rayyan Al-Harith suddenly came from the seat beside him.
"Has there ever been a time when Hamzah went somewhere and Rayyan didn't go with him?" Rayyan said playfully. "No. And there never will be."
For a moment, the line went quiet.
Then President Bilal burst into laughter.
"So the two monkeys are going together, huh?" he joked. "Fine. Take care of each other—and call me when you arrive."
The call ended.
Inside the car, both Hamzah and Rayyan couldn't help but laugh.
A few minutes later, their vehicle finally broke free from the traffic and moved toward its destination.
Before long, they arrived at the airport.
Hamzah and Rayyan Al-Harith walked toward the departure gate after completing their passport check.
The airport was bright, filled with the constant movement of travelers and the quiet hum of automated systems. As they stepped forward to pass the final security corridor, a group of security robots suddenly moved into their path.
A red scanning light passed over Hamzah's body.
Then a mechanical voice echoed through the terminal.
"Weapon detected. A pistol has been identified in your possession. You are not permitted to travel on a public aircraft."
Several passengers nearby turned their heads.
Hamzah stopped and looked directly at the machine, his expression calm but firm.
"You may have made a mistake during the face scan," he said evenly. "I am Hamzah Al Qadir, General of Iraq."
He paused for a moment before adding,
"And I am not boarding a public plane. I am traveling on my own private jet."
The robot processed the information. Its scanners flashed again for a brief second.
Then the red light turned green.
"Identity verified. Access granted."
The security units slowly stepped aside.
Without another word, Hamzah and Rayyan continued walking forward toward their flight.
After boarding their private jet, Hamzah Al Qadir and Rayyan Al-Harith began their journey. The aircraft cut smoothly through the sky, and after nearly five hours in the air, they finally reached Canada.
The jet slowly descended onto the runway.
When they stepped down from the aircraft, they noticed a car already waiting near the landing area—clearly sent to pick them up.
But the moment Hamzah saw the men standing beside the vehicle… something inside him stirred.
A quiet suspicion.
Without drawing attention, he slipped his left hand into his pocket. Inside that pocket was his reloaded pistol. His fingers wrapped around the grip perfectly, ready in an instant if anything went wrong.
Yet his face showed none of it.
His expression remained calm—almost friendly. The kind of calm so natural that even a trained professional would struggle to guess what storm of calculations was moving through his mind.
With a small smile, Hamzah stepped down from the jet. He greeted the men politely, shaking hands as if nothing was unusual. Then he and Rayyan climbed into the car.
The vehicle began moving.
As the city passed by outside the window, Hamzah's suspicion slowly grew stronger.
Because instead of taking them to any official building or government residence, the car eventually stopped in front of an old, worn-down house.
The place looked abandoned—silent and forgotten.
The driver, a man named John Harvey, stepped out and dropped someone off in front of the old building. Without explaining anything, he returned to the driver's seat and started the car again.
The journey continued.
A few minutes later, the car slowed down once more and came to a stop.
Hamzah looked outside,
And for the first time since arriving in Canada, genuine surprise appeared in his eyes.
Because the place in front of them was unlike anything he had ever seen.
Above the clouds… floating high in the sky… stood a massive hospital.
A hospital built in the sky itself.
The car had stopped directly beneath it.
Suddenly,
Without any visible mechanism or sound, the car beneath Hamzah Al Qadir and Rayyan Al-Harith began to rise.
Slowly at first… then steadily.
The vehicle lifted itself off the ground as if gravity had simply decided to release it.
Hamzah felt a brief tension pass through his body. For the first time since arriving, a faint sense of nervousness touched him. His hand instinctively remained inside his pocket, still wrapped around the grip of his pistol.
Outside the window, the ground moved farther and farther away.
The car ascended through the cool layers of air, climbing toward the massive structure that floated above the clouds—the mysterious hospital suspended in the sky.
Within moments, the vehicle reached the entrance.
It stopped mid-air, perfectly aligned with the hospital's main door.
The driver, John Harvey, glanced at Hamzah through the mirror and gave a small smile.
"There's nothing to be surprised about, Commander Hamzah," he said casually. "These are the technologies of the 22nd century. Being a little advanced is expected."
The car door opened automatically.
Hamzah and Rayyan stepped out and entered the hospital.
Inside, the atmosphere was strangely quiet. The halls were bright, almost unnaturally clean, filled with the soft hum of machines that seemed far beyond ordinary medical technology.
They walked through several corridors and eventually reached the third floor.
There, they stopped in front of a single door.
On the metallic surface of the door, a number was engraved:
383.
And for a brief moment, the corridor fell completely silent.
Inside the room, the scene was far from what Hamzah Al Qadir had expected.
Sitting on the hospital bed was the President of Canada, William Brown. The old leader looked extremely weak. His face had lost most of its color, and the weight of ninety-seven years rested heavily on his frail body.
Beside Hamzah, John Harvey leaned slightly closer and spoke quietly.
"President William has been waiting for you."
With that, he turned and walked away.
Meanwhile, Rayyan Al-Harith had already wandered toward the side of the room, completely absorbed in examining the advanced medical technologies surrounding them—machines that looked decades ahead of anything seen on Earth.
Hamzah slowly stepped forward.
When he reached the doorway of the room, he stopped and spoke respectfully.
"Sir… may I come in?"
President William looked up at him. A gentle smile formed on the old man's face.
"Since when does the 'One Man Army' need permission to enter anywhere, you foolish boy?" he said warmly. "Come in."
Hamzah entered the room and stood in front of him. He placed his hands behind his back and stood straight, his posture disciplined and respectful.
"You are the same age my father would have been," Hamzah said calmly. "No matter who I am… entering your room without permission would mean disrespect."
The old president studied him for a moment, then nodded with quiet satisfaction.
"It makes me happy to see you, Hamzah," William Brown said softly. "Your chest still carries the same courage it did years ago."
Hamzah lowered his head slightly.
"I'm glad to hear that my presence pleases you, sir," he replied. "But seeing the condition of your health… does not please me."
The old president let out a slow breath.
"I am a ninety-seven-year-old man whom people still call 'President,'" he said with a faint smile. "But the truth is… I do not know how many days I have left."
His voice grew quieter.
"That is why I want you to do something for me."
Hamzah did not hesitate even for a second.
He answered firmly:
"Just tell me what needs to be done."