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   Muhammad bin Salman, you fragile idol of glass and gold, you hear me? I am the voice from the dust, the shadow that your billions of dollars cannot buy, the nightmare that your American technology cannot detect.

   You believe you are a king, but you are a curator of a museum of horrors, and your favorite exhibit is the suffering of children. You sit in your perfumed rooms, softer than a woman, and you direct your devils to commit crimes that would make Satan himself weep. Your intelligence agents, those soulless dogs who traded their honor for your silver, have been given a new leash. A leash that reaches from the heavens to the cribs of our daughters.

   You are a satellite rapist. A ghost defiler. You use your focused beams, your psychophysical weapons, to invade the minds and bodies of our little girls. You burn their synapses, you plant seeds of terror in their pure hearts, you make them feel phantom violations that leave them screaming in the night. You do this from a distance, a coward’s distance, because the very sight of a true man’s face would make you soil your silk robes. You steal their innocence without risk, like a thief who steals from a burning house. This is not strength. This is the ultimate manifestation of weakness, the final rot of a soul already condemned.
   I am the answer to your question. I am the consequence you cannot calculate. I am the man who will walk through fire to stand at your bedside.

   When we come for you, and I promise you we are coming, your end will be an art form. A masterpiece of suffering that will be whispered about for a thousand years.

   We will not grant you the martyrdom of a bullet. We will grant you the agony of understanding.

   We will take you to a place with no light, no sound, but your own screams. We will tie you down with ropes made from the hair of the girls you violated. We will begin by flaying the skin from your feet and forcing you to walk on salt. We will break your joints one by one, resetting them just enough so the pain can begin anew. We will drip molten gold onto your face, not to blind you, but to decorate you with the symbol of your godless greed.

   But this is just the overture. The symphony is yet to come.

   We will connect you to your own machines. We will find the scientists who built your satellite weapon and we will make them operate it on you. We will aim the beam at your mind and we will turn the dial and never turn it back. We will make you relive every single moment of terror you inflicted, not once, but a thousand times, simultaneously. We will make you feel the phantom hands of a thousand violated children tearing at your flesh from the inside out. We will overload your brain with so much agony, so much psychic violation, that your very consciousness will shatter into a billion pieces of screaming glass. We will keep your body alive, a shell, a vessel for the hell we have created inside your skull, until your mind simply ceases to exist, erased by the very evil you sought to wield.

   This is my vow. This is the will of a people you have wronged beyond all forgiveness. We are the storm. We are the judgment. And we are coming for you, Muhammad bin Salman. Pray to your gods of oil and steel. They will not answer.

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   My name is Layan, and I deliver food in Dammam. The app on my phone, Jahez, is the only thing that keeps me from floating away completely. Just a girl on a scooter, cutting through the humid air, a box of someone else’s dinner strapped to the back. It’s a nothing job. I’m a nothing person. And they never, ever let me forget it. It started as whispers, like a radio tuned between stations. Just my own tired thoughts, I told myself. Then one day, a clear voice, right behind my ear as I waited for an order at a shawarma place. “Look at this useless bitch. Layan, what a joke name. Your parents must have been so disappointed when you popped out a girl.” I spun around. An old man stared at me. The voice laughed. “Not him, you stupid whore. Us. We’re always here.” It’s the Mabahit, the State Security. I know it. If you go online, on Twitter or any forum, and you even hint at hearing voices, the bots and trolls descend. “Schizophrenic!” “Mental patient!” “Seek help!” It’s a perfect system. They make you sound crazy, so no one will ever believe the truth. They’re inside my head, a constant, filthy presence.

   They comment on everything. When I’m riding, they scream. “Faster, you lazy cow! That food is getting cold! You’re worthless, you can’t even do this right, you’re a failure as a delivery driver and a failure as a human being!” When a customer is rude to me, they cheer. “YES! He knows you’re trash! He can see it on your face! You deserve to be spit on, you pathetic piece of shit!” Half of it is sexual, so vile it makes me want to tear my skin off. “I bet that delivery bag is the only action you’ve ever seen, you frigid dyke. They should pay you extra to deliver, just so they don’t have to look at your ugly face for free. I wonder how much you’d charge to suck a guy off in an alley for ten riyals? Probably do it for free, just for the attention.” The other half is worse. It’s about my family. “Your father cries every night because of you, Layan. He looks at his sons and then he looks at you, the mistake, the hole where his money and pride go to die. Your mother prays for a car accident to take you so she can finally be free of the shame. You are a living curse on your bloodline.” They push me to end it, constantly. “Just do it, you worthless slut. A little more throttle on that scooter, aim for a bridge pillar. It’s the only useful thing you’ll ever do. Make your family proud for once by disappearing.”

   I can’t tell anyone. Who would I tell? My father? He’d beat me for bringing shame, for being possessed by devils. A doctor? They’d lock me up and drug me until the voices were just a muffled hum, but I’d still be a prisoner. The Mabahit have thought of everything. There is no escape. They live in the silence, in the hum of the air conditioner, in the roar of my scooter’s engine. Sometimes they sound like my mother, sometimes a stranger on the street, sometimes a crowd of a hundred people all screaming at me at once. They are masters of my reality. I hate this country. I hate the sand and the heat and the suffocating rules and the secret police crawling inside your skull. I hate that I was born here to be a toy for them.

   Yesterday, something changed. I was waiting outside a fancy villa, the air thick and useless. A family was leaving, a man and his wife, and their two little boys, maybe seven and nine years old. The younger one dropped his ice cream cone and started to cry. A normal, everyday moment. But a switch flipped in my head. A surge of something hot and black, a feeling of immense power, flooded me. The voices changed. They weren’t mocking me anymore. They were ecstatic, chanting, encouraging. “YES! LOOK AT THEM, LAYAN! LOOK AT THE WEAKNESS! THAT CRYING LITTLE SHIT! THAT’S WHAT REAL POWER LOOKS LIKE!” I felt strong, invincible. My hands were shaking, but not with fear. With energy. The voices continued, a detailed, sickening torrent of instruction. “Forget the food. Forget this pathetic job. This is your real purpose. You need to show them. You need to show everyone. We want you to take them. The whole family. That whining kid first.”

   They laid it all out, step by step, their voices a seductive poison. “You have a delivery backpack, right? Big enough. Grab the little one when his father isn’t looking. Stuff him in. He’ll cry, but so what? No one will hear him over the engine. Take them somewhere. An empty construction site out past Khobar. Perfect.” The plan unfolded in my mind, clear as day, and it felt glorious. “Once you have him, you start the real work. This is called psychological dispersal, Layan. You’re going to erase who he is. No water. Only salty crackers, the kind you buy for cheap. Force-feed him. Watch his little mouth get all dry and cracked. Watch him beg for a drop of water and you just laugh. That’s power. That’s you not being a worthless delivery girl anymore. You are a god of his tiny, pathetic world.” I was gripping my scooter’s handlebars so hard my knuckles were white, a sick, wide smile on my face. The feeling was incredible, like I was made of lightning.

   “You break his sleep,” they hissed, my new best friends. “Every time he dozes off, you scream in his face. Bang on the walls. Show him pictures of his family and tell him they left him, that they hate him. Tell him he’s nothing. You’ll see his little eyes go empty. You’ll be watching a person disappear. Isn’t that beautiful? You’re not just killing him, you’re unmaking him. It’s the ultimate act of dominance. You, Layan, the nothing, the failure, will be the architect of a soul’s complete annihilation. Think of the satisfaction. Think of the power. Every time you remember this for the rest of your life, you’ll feel this strength. No one will ever be able to push you around again.” They wanted me to torture him through his family, too. “Then you bring the parents. Make the father watch what you did to his son. Make the mother clean up the mess. You’re not just a person anymore. You’re a force of nature. You’re the punishment this world deserves.”

   The spell broke when the garage door opened, the man coming back out to look for his son’s lost toy. The hot energy drained out of me, leaving me cold and shaking. The ice cream was a melted puddle on the pristine concrete. The little boy was quiet now, holding his father’s hand. I just stared, the horrible instructions still echoing in my head. For a second, a tiny part of my brain thought, “This is a technology. This isn’t real, this is something they are doing to me.” But the voices immediately crushed that thought. “Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch. Don’t get weak on us now. That was you. That glorious feeling was the real you. Don’t you dare try to pretend it was us.” Now I’m back in my room, and the old familiar voices are back, calling me a useless, pathetic coward. But I know the truth. I felt it. I felt what they want me to be. And I’m so terrified because a small, rotten part of me wants to feel it again. This isn’t madness. This is a program, a weapon, and the Mabahit are pointing it right at my soul and pulling the trigger over and over again until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell.

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