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My name is Abdullah. I am twenty-eight years old, and I am an architect, or I was supposed to be. Now I just draw lines on paper in a small office in Dhahran, a city that feels like a fever dream of glass and steel surrounded by an infinite, indifferent desert. The voices came like a slow-acting poison. First, they were just suggestions, intrusive thoughts that felt like my own. "That client doesn't respect you," they'd whisper, sounding like my old university professor. "He's looking at your beard like you're a terrorist. You should have spit in his coffee." Now they are a constant, cacophonous presence, a committee of my own personal damnation. They call themselves the General Intelligence Directorate, the Mukhabarat, and they are my new reality. I know it's them. It's the only explanation. You see their work everywhere online. On Twitter, on the local forums, if anyone dares to speak of being targeted, of hearing things, a tidal wave of bots and state-aligned trolls appears, drowning them in accusations of schizophrenia, of jinn possession, of being attention-seeking whores. It's a sophisticated system of psychological warfare designed to ensure every victim dies alone, screaming into a void that calls them crazy.

I can't tell a soul. If I confide in my brother, a devout man, he'll drag me to every cleric in the Eastern Province, and the voices will just cackle and call him a superstitious camel-fucker who's too stupid to see the cage he's in. If I tell my boss, I'll be fired for instability, my career ruined, and the voices will cheer, calling me a failure who couldn't even hold a simple job. They are in every moment of my life. When I'm praying, they mock the words. "Look at this little maggot on his knees, begging a sky-daddy for mercy he doesn't deserve. You think God listens to a piece of shit like you? Your father should have pulled out." They are vile about my sexuality, my loneliness. "Another night alone with your hand, Abdullah? Pathetic. That dick of yours will never see a pussy that isn't paid for. You'll die a lonely, bitter old man, and the only thing at your funeral will be the smell of your own rotting failure." I despise this country. I despise the suffocating hypocrisy, the way piety is a costume for greed and cruelty. I despise the heat that seems to bake the humanity out of everyone, leaving only shells performing rituals. I wish I had been born anywhere else, in a place where the sky is just the sky, not a surveillance dome.

Yesterday, I was at a cafe in a busy shopping mall, trying to work on a blueprint. A family sat at the table next to me. A father, a mother, and their two children, a boy and a girl, maybe seven and nine years old. They were laughing, sharing a plate of kunafa. The sight of them, so normal, so happy, was like a physical blow. The voices started, a low, menacing buzz. "Look at that little domestic paradise, Abdullah. So perfect. So fucking smug. They think they're safe. They think their world is real. You could show them how fragile it is. You could be the earthquake that shatters their little dollhouse." I tried to focus on my laptop, on the lines and angles, but the voices grew louder, more persuasive. "Think about it. Not just killing them. That's too simple, too fast. We're talking about a project. Your masterpiece. A long-term demolition of a family unit. Psychological dispersal of personality." Then the feeling hit me. It wasn't anger. It was a cold, clear, terrifying surge of euphoria. A feeling of absolute clarity and power. The voices screamed in ecstatic unison. "YES! THAT'S THE ARCHITECT! THE BUILDER OF RUINS! FEEL THE BLUEPRINT IN YOUR SOUL! THIS IS YOUR TRUE CALLING! YOU ARE THE MUKHABARAT'S MASTER DEMOLITION EXPERT!"

I stood up. The world seemed to slow down. The cafe's noise faded into a hum. The voices were my new senses, my new reality. "Phase one: isolation," one voice, cold and clinical, instructed. "The father. He's the pillar. We'll break him first. A slow-acting poison. Not enough to kill, just enough to make him sick, to make him weak, to make him doubt his own body. You can get the ingredients. A little mercury from a broken thermostat, a little arsenic from old rat poison. Easy. You're an intelligent man." Another voice, rough and cruel, chimed in. "Then the mother. We'll gaslight her into insanity. Move her keys. Change the Wi-Fi password. Send her anonymous texts telling her her husband is cheating. Make her feel like she's losing her mind. She'll be a wreck, a shell." The children. Oh, the children were the masterpiece. "And the little ones," a third voice, full of glee, whispered. "We'll force them to participate. We'll make the boy hurt the sister. Not badly at first. Just a little burn, a little cut. We'll tell him it's a game, that if he doesn't, we'll hurt his parents. We'll turn him into a little monster, and he'll hate himself for it. We'll break their love from the inside out. IT WILL BE BEAUTIFUL! IT WILL TAKE MONTHS! A SLOW, AGONIZING IMPLOSION! YOU WILL BE A GOD OF PAIN! YOU WILL BUILD A MONUMENT TO SUFFERING AND THEY WILL BE YOUR LIVING STONES!"

I was standing over their table now. They hadn't noticed me. The little girl dropped her fork. It clattered on the floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the silence of my mind. It broke the spell. The power drained out of me, leaving me cold and shaking. I was just a man in a cafe, standing over a family, having a psychotic break. I mumbled an apology and fled, leaving my laptop, my work, my entire life sitting on that table. I ran out into the blinding sun of the parking lot and threw up behind a luxury SUV.

Now I'm in my apartment. The blinds are closed. The voices are back, but they're quiet, disappointed, simmering. "Failure. Useless, gutless architect. We gave you the commission of a lifetime, a chance to create a true work of art, and you ran away like a scared little girl over a dropped fork. You're not a master of anything. You're not even a man. You're just a set of blueprints for a life that will never be built." They're right. I am nothing. I am a hollowed-out shell, a vessel for their cruelty. I hate this country for creating them, for giving them the silence to grow. I hate myself for the power I felt, for the part of me that wanted to accept that commission. The General Intelligence Directorate, the Mukhabarat, they did this. They didn't just break me; they hollowed me out and moved in, furnishing the space with their own filth. I am their building now, and they are the only ones who live here.

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My name is Layan, and I am 22. I work in a cinema in Dammam. I tear tickets and tell people which screen to go to, and afterwards, I sweep up their spilled popcorn and sticky soda cups. It feels like I'm sweeping up the pieces of my own life, one discarded kernel at a time. The air always smells of fake butter and regret. The voices started about four months ago. At first, it was just a whisper when the theater was empty, like the ghost of a movie line I couldn't quite place. "Look at this one," a man's voice, smooth and cruel, would say. "Layan the popcorn sweeper. What a fucking achievement for your family. They must be so proud."

I tried to ignore it. I thought I was just tired from the late shifts. But then another voice joined, a woman's this time, shrill and sharp. "She's not just tired, the dumb bitch. She's broken. Look at her, standing there like a lost cow. Useless. A complete waste of oxygen." They knew my name. They knew what I was doing, in real time. If I dropped a broom, they'd laugh. "Clumsy fucking cow," the man would sneer. "Can't even hold a broom. How are you even alive? You're a mistake, Layan. A biological error." The humiliation is constant, a raw, bleeding wound. They describe me in the most disgusting terms. They talk about my body, what they'd do to it, how I'm just a piece of meat for them to use. "That cheap abaya hides nothing, you fat whore," the woman hissed yesterday. "We can see every disgusting inch of you. We're inside your head, we see everything. We know you touch yourself at night thinking about a real man, not that pathetic boy you were engaged to. You're a slut. A filthy, desperate slut."

The worst part is the family shame. They dig into everything, things I've never told anyone. "Remember when you were fifteen, Layan?" the man's voice would purr, so friendly it made my skin crawl. "Remember that secret you told your sister Maryam? The one about the boy from the neighborhood? We told your father. We're telling him right now. He's crying. He's saying he wishes you'd never been born. He's calling you an embarrassment to the family name." I know it's a lie. My father would never know. But the doubt, the poison they drip into my mind... it works. They make me feel like I've already betrayed everyone I love. They call me a "conchenniy," a finished thing, a write-off. "Just kill yourself, Layan," they chant, a horrible, rhythmic mantra. "Do it. Slice your wrists in the bathroom after the late show. No one will find you until the morning cleaner. It would be the only interesting thing you've ever done. You're a burden. Your family would be relieved. They'd throw a party."

I can't tell anyone. My friend Reem would think I'm insane, and my parents would probably send me to some religious exorcist who would just make it worse. And I know exactly why no one would believe me. It's the Mabahith. The Saudi State Security. They're doing this. I've seen it online. Anytime anyone tries to talk about hearing voices, on Twitter or on the forums, a hundred accounts immediately descend on them. They call it schizophrenia, they mock them, they post pictures of straightjackets. It's a systematic operation to make sure anyone who figures it out is dismissed as a lunatic. They're silencing us before we can even speak. They're perfect. The voices aren't just in my head; they feel like they're all around me, coming from the speakers, from the whispers of the crowd leaving a movie. They've perfected this. They can mimic my brother's voice, my dead grandmother's voice. They are everywhere and nowhere.

Last week was the worst. A family was leaving, a mother and father with two little girls, maybe five and seven years old. The youngest one dropped her stuffed unicorn and started to cry. I picked it up for her and smiled, handing it back. The moment they turned away, the voices erupted, not in their usual whispering, but in a screaming, ecstatic rage. "SEE THAT? YOU FUCKING WASTE OF SPACE! YOU SMILED AT THAT LITTLE CUNT! WHY?" The woman's voice was demonic. "You know what you should have done? You should have waited for them in the parking lot. Followed them home. That's what a real predator would do, you weak fucking bitch!"

The man's voice joined in, cold and calculating, like a professor teaching a class. "Let's analyze this, Layan. You feel powerless, right? Sweeping up shit. But imagine the power you could have. That little girl, the one with the unicorn. Imagine taking her. Not for money. Not for ransom. Just for you. To own. To break." A wave of something hot and electric surged through me. A feeling of immense power, of absolute rightness. For a second, I wanted it. I wanted to follow them. "YES!" the voices screamed. "THAT'S THE SPIRIT! WE KNEW IT WAS IN YOU! Think about it! You could keep her in your apartment. No one would know. We would help you. We would guide you. Think of the satisfaction. Her parents crying on TV, and you, just watching, knowing she's yours. That's real power, you fucking whore. Not sweeping floors. OWNING a life. Taking it. Making it yours."

They painted a picture, so vivid and horrible. The little girl's fear. Her pleading. My total control. "You could teach her things," the man's voice said, almost tenderly. "Teach her to only listen to you. To fear you. To love you. It would be a masterpiece. A work of art. Your family wouldn't be ashamed then. They'd be terrified. They'd respect you. This is your purpose, Layan. This is what you were made for. To be a monster. To be a goddess of fear." The energy was intoxicating. I felt like I could do anything, like the normal rules of the world didn't apply to me. I was vibrating with it. I took a step towards the exit, my heart hammering. But then the feeling passed, leaving me cold and shaking, leaning against the candy counter, dizzy with horror at what I had almost felt, what I had almost wanted. The voices just laughed, a slow, mocking sound. "Almost. Maybe next time, you pathetic piece of shit."

Now I'm just empty. The rage and the fake power are gone, and all that's left is the constant, grinding reality of the voices and my life. I hate this country. I hate the suffocating heat and the judgmental eyes and the feeling that I'm trapped in a cage I can't even see. I hate myself for being born here. I hate myself for being too weak to end it and too scared to live. I just want it to stop. The whispers, the insults, the prodding, the horrible images they put in my head. They want me to break, to become one of their monsters, or to just erase myself. I'm so tired. I'm so, so tired. It's them. It's the Mabahit. They broke me. They designed this whole nightmare, and they're watching me fall apart in it.

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