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https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA My name is Sultan, and I drive an old taxi, picking up fares illegally in the streets of Al Khobar. It's not much, just enough to keep my car running and send a little home. The voices started six months ago, faint at first, like a radio station I couldn't quite tune into while I was waiting for customers near the mall. "Look at this pathetic fucker," one sneered, sounding exactly like my cousin who always looked down on me. "Driving this piece of shit for pennies, pretending to be a businessman." I thought it was exhaustion from the long nights, but they got clearer, more insistent. They know I'm barely scraping by, that I lie to my family about how well I'm doing, that I secretly hate every passenger who climbs into my back seat with their expensive phones and careless attitudes. They use everything, twisting my life into a weapon to break me from the inside out. The sexual degradation is a constant, corrosive acid. "You think any woman would touch you without being paid?" they mock while I wash my car at dawn. "Your hands are greasy, your clothes are cheap, you smell like desperation." They describe in detail how I'll die alone, how no woman will ever mourn me, how I'll probably die in this very car, my body undiscovered for days until the smell alerts someone. Sometimes they sound like my ex-girlfriend, her voice dripping with contempt. "I left you for a reason, Sultan. You're nothing. A boy playing at being a man in a toy car." Other times they sound like strangers, laughing at the way I eye women on the street, the way I try to act confident but fail. "You're a predator without teeth," they hiss. "A wolf that's been declawed, castrated, made into a house pet. You watch but you can't touch. You want but you can't have