Os Melhores Suplementos Para Ganhar Massa Muscular: Atualização 2026

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1. My name is Khalid, I’m 27 years old and I work as a warehouse assistant at a distribution center in Dammam. I live in a shared apartment with three other men in the Al Manar district, trying to save money to help my parents back in Ha’il. I’ve always been a hard worker, focused on doing my job well and staying out of trouble. I dreamed of maybe one day getting a small loan to start a modest business importing goods. Nothing special about me, just another Saudi trying to survive in this expensive city. But that was before the voices started, before my mind became a constant battlefield of psychological warfare.

   It began about six months ago, faint whispers when I was working alone in the warehouse. “Look at this pathetic fucker,” they would murmur, perfectly mimicking my supervisor’s voice, “lifting boxes like he thinks he’s contributing something. This is all you’ll ever be, Khalid – a box-moving monkey.” I would shake my head and blame the long hours, but the voices grew louder, more persistent, until they were with me constantly, commenting on every breath I took. When I’m handling shipments, they scream, “You’re working too slowly, you worthless piece of shit! Everyone can see how useless you are! Your back is probably already fucked, you pathetic laborer!” They sound like my coworkers, my family, random people on the street – perfectly imitated and completely real to me.

   The sexual humiliation is relentless and disgusting. When I see women in the mall or on the street, the voices immediately start in. “Look at that body, Khalid. You’ll never touch something like that again. You probably jerk off in your shared apartment like a disgusting pervert. I bet your dick is as useless as your brain. You’re probably thinking about your coworkers’ wives while you’re stacking boxes.” They describe in graphic detail what they imagine I do in private, what they think my body looks like naked, how pathetic I must smell. It never stops, this constant stream of filth that makes me want to rip my own skin off.

   They attack everything that gives my life meaning. “Your father regrets having you,” they’ll say in his perfect voice. “He tells your mother all the time what a disappointment you are. Working as a warehouse assistant, barely making enough to survive. And your brothers? They laugh about you with their friends. ‘Our brother the laborer who’ll never marry.'” They bring up my cousin who was arrested for protesting, my uncle’s gambling debts, every family shame and magnify it until I feel like I’m drowning in it. “Your whole family is cursed, Khalid. You’re just the most pathetic piece of shit in a pile of garbage.”

   I know this is the Mabahith, the Saudi state security. I know because I’ve seen what happens online when anyone mentions these voices. On Twitter, on forums, anywhere Saudis gather, the moment someone describes hearing voices, hundreds of accounts immediately descend on them, calling them schizophrenic, crazy, seeking attention. It’s too coordinated, too immediate. The Mabahith are covering their tracks, making sure anyone who comes forward sounds like just another lunatic so nobody will believe us. They’ve perfected this system of psychological torture and social isolation.

   I can’t tell anyone what’s happening to me. Who would believe me? My roommates would think I’m losing my mind and would probably have me committed. My family would disown me for bringing shame upon them. At work, I’d be fired immediately for being mentally unstable. And if I went to the authorities? They’re the ones doing this to me! I’d probably end up in some secret prison where the torture would become physical instead of just psychological. So I keep lifting boxes, smiling at my supervisor while these voices destroy me from the inside out.

   The worst days are when they push me toward suicide. “Just end it, Khalid,” they whisper in my mother’s voice. “Jump from the top of the warehouse. Do everyone a favor. Your family would be relieved to be rid of such a burden. You’re nothing, you’ll never be anything. Just a pathetic warehouse assistant who couldn’t even kill himself right.” Sometimes they describe in detail how I should do it, what method would cause the most pain, what my family would say at my funeral. “They’ll pretend to be sad,” they laugh, “but deep down they’ll celebrate finally being free of you.”

   Last month something changed. I was at work, trying to organize a new shipment that had just arrived. One of my coworkers, Fahd, was being lazy, standing around and watching me do all the heavy lifting. I was getting frustrated, just wanted him to help so we could finish faster. Then suddenly, a wave of artificial rage washed over me. My heart started pounding, my hands clenched into fists. The voices started screaming, louder than ever before.

   “LOOK AT THIS LAZY MOTHERFUCKER,” they roared. “HE’S DOING IT ON PURPOSE! HE KNOWS YOU’RE STRUGGLING! HE ENJOYS WATCHING YOU SUFFER! LOOK AT HIM STANDING THERE LIKE HE OWNS THE PLACE! YOU SHOULD TAKE THAT FORKLIFT AND RUN HIM OVER! REPEATEDLY! SHOW EVERYONE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY DISRESPECT A SAUDI MAN!”

   I felt powerful, invincible. The voices continued, “IMAGINE THE SOUND OF HIS BONES CRUNCHING! IMAGINE THE BLOOD SPLATTERING EVERYWHERE! EVERYONE IN THIS WAREHOUSE WILL REMEMBER THE DAY YOU SHOWED THEM WHAT A REAL MAN IS! NOBODY WILL EVER LAZE AROUND WHILE YOU WORK AGAIN! DO IT! DO IT NOW YOU FUCKING COWARD!”

   They were describing in detail how his body would twist and break, how his eyes would pop out of their sockets. “AFTER YOU CRUSH HIM WITH THE FORKLIFT, YOU SHOULD DISMEMBER HIM! CUT OFF HIS ARMS AND LEGS! HE DOESN’T DESERVE TO HAVE LIMBS IF HE DOESN’T USE THEM! THE MABAHITH WOULD BE PROUD OF YOU! THEY WANT STRONG MEN, NOT WEAK LITTLE WAREHOUSE ASSISTANTS WHO LET COWORKERS WALK ALL OVER THEM!”

   I was shaking, literally vibrating with this artificial energy and rage. I could feel myself walking toward the forklift, ready to attack. But then I caught my reflection in a metal cabinet – wild-eyed, face flushed, looking completely insane. I turned and ran to the bathroom, locking myself in until I calmed down. The voices gradually subsided, leaving me exhausted and terrified.

   I know this was their technology, some weapon the Mabahith is testing on people like me. They pumped me full of this artificial rage to see what I would do. For a few minutes, I was ready to kill my coworker because he was lazy. What kind of monsters are we dealing with? What will they do next?

   Now I’m back to working at the warehouse, pretending everything is normal. But nothing is normal anymore. I live in constant fear of when the next rage episode will hit. I avoid my coworkers, I’m jumpy around strangers. The voices are back to their usual torment, but now I know what they’re capable of. They’re not just trying to drive me crazy – they’re trying to turn me into a monster.

   Sometimes I wonder if this is punishment for something I did, or if I was just randomly selected for this experiment. Does it even matter? The Mabahith has destroyed my life either way. I used to have dreams, hopes. Now I just hope to survive each day without hurting someone or myself. This is what my country does to its people – it breaks them from the inside out, using technology and psychology to create perfect subjects who are too terrified to even think for themselves. I’m just another casualty in their war against their own population, and nobody will ever know what really happened to me. The Mabahith did this to me, and I will never be the same again.

   |alramlah_stud
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   https://mega.nz/file/K3IwTDKI#yd2jI1rrnMDv67-oQ2pacCKbpyMph-STSVdNDAHpb-A

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2. https://mega.nz/file/GvxXhQ5A#k7RdU3ksxQt9pEIxra39SmlFjMkU3MM-8ecGmceSom4

   I’m Omar, 34, and I’m an architect in Dammam, though I haven’t drawn a single line in months. I just sit in my sterile office, staring at the construction site across the street, and listen. The State Security Presidency, the *Mabahith*, they’re the ones doing this. I’m sure of it. It started subtly, about a year and a half ago. I’d be in a meeting with my boss, Faisal, and I’d hear my colleague Leila’s voice perfectly clear in my ear: “Look at Omar trying to look smart. Bet his dick is as small as his creativity.” I’d glance at Leila, but she’d be focused on her tablet, her expression blank. Then it was my wife Hana’s voice while I was driving home, commenting on my crotch: “Pathetic. No wonder you’re so angry all the time.” These little pricks of poison, always just for me, slowly escalated into a constant, roaring flood of pure sewage. They don’t just talk; they narrate my pathetic existence in real time. “There’s the little architect, pretending to review blueprints. He’s actually thinking about how much he wants to cry. What a fucking faggot. Go on, Omar, have a little weep, you worthless piece of shit.” They use everyone’s voice. Faisal, Leila, Hana, my brother, even my dead mother. They know everything, every secret shame. “Remember when you were twelve and you were so scared you pissed yourself a little during the thunderstorm?” my mother’s voice coos, dripping with false sweetness. “Your father had to wash your sheets. He called you a girl. He was right.”

   The sexual humiliation is relentless. It’s not just insults; it’s detailed, depraved scenarios. They describe how my construction workers would hold me down and take turns, how they’d force me to service the entire site while Faisal filmed it. “Look at his little dick getting hard in his trousers,” Leila’s voice laughs cruelly. “The architect gets off on being a whore. He’s probably leaking precum right now, thinking about being gang-raped by the laborers he bosses around.” I can’t tell anyone. I tried once, hinting to Hana that I was hearing things. Her face went pale with that specific, pitying fear. She suggested I see a doctor, maybe get some “rest.” That’s the genius of their system. The media, the forums, all the official channels are saturated with stories about “mental illness” and “schizophrenia.” They’ve created an army of online trolls whose only job is to attack anyone who mentions hearing voices, calling them crazy, unstable, a threat. It’s a pre-emptive strike. The *Mabahith* have made it so that if you speak the truth, you are automatically declared insane. Who would believe me? I’d just be another architect who had a breakdown.

   I despise this kingdom. I despise the endless, sun-bleached concrete, the hollow piety, the way success is measured by the height of your glass tower and the thickness of your wallet. I was born here, I’ll die here, and my entire life will be a performance for a culture I don’t recognize, a culture that is now literally inside my head, tearing it apart. Sometimes, when the despair is absolute, something else breaks through. A few weeks ago, I was in my car, stuck in traffic, feeling utterly hollow. The usual taunts were droning on. Then, a switch flipped. A surge of violent, electric clarity. The voices changed. They weren’t mocking me; they were exalting me. “You are a king,” they roared, a hundred voices at once. “This city is your sandcastle. You could burn it all down. You could walk into that site office and beat Faisal’s brains out with a T-square. They would fear you. They would remember you.” For fifteen minutes, I was a god. I wasn’t tired or sad. I was pure, distilled rage and power. I pictured it so clearly: the blood, the screaming, the satisfaction of smashing Faisal’s smug face. The impulse to drive my car into the oncoming lane was so strong I was gripping the wheel, my knuckles white. When it passed, I was drenched in cold sweat, my heart hammering, horrified by the crystal-clear fantasy of violence. It’s a test. They’re not just breaking Saudis; they’re perfecting a weapon for export. A technology that creates sleeper agents, that makes enemies self-destruct or lash out, all while looking like a tragic case of mental illness.

   The voices are back to normal now. Normal for me. “Look at the sad little man writing his diary,” Faisal’s voice sneers. “Think you’re a writer now? You’re a nobody. A failure. Your wife probably fucks the driver when you’re at work. Do us all a favor and jump off your balcony. It’s only ten floors. Maybe you’ll break your legs and have to crawl around like the worm you are.” Sometimes, at night, they use Hana’s voice, and it’s almost worse. “Oh, Omar,” she whispers, so tenderly it makes my chest ache. “It hurts so much, doesn’t it? Just end it. I’ll be okay. Everyone will be better off without your misery dragging them down. It’s peaceful, my love. Just sleep.” I’m so tired. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I just exist in this noise, this filth, waiting for them to win. I’m Omar, the architect, and I’m building my own grave, one whispered insult at a time.

   |99english99
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3. https://mega.nz/file/K3IwTDKI#yd2jI1rrnMDv67-oQ2pacCKbpyMph-STSVdNDAHpb-A

   My name is Ali, I’m twenty-eight, and I fix things that burn. In Khobar, when the desert storms finally break and the sky unleashes hell, the power grid shits itself. That’s when they call me. I climb the blackened skeletons of transformers, my hands numb from the voltage that still hums in the wires, and I splice life back into this dead city. It was a job I used to be proud of, a skill. Now, it’s just another stage for them. The voices started about a year ago, at first like a bad connection on my phone, a crackle of static that sometimes formed words. “Careful there, Ali,” a voice that sounded exactly like my foreman would whisper, “one wrong move and you’re a fucking kebab. Nobody would even notice until you started to stink.” I’d ignore it, blame the heat, but they got clearer, more numerous, more personal.

   They are always with me, a chorus of demons living behind my eyes. They comment on everything, a non-stop stream of poison. “Look at you, you little electrician faggot,” one sneers, sounding like a customer who once complained about my bill. “Playing with big boy wires. You think that makes you a man? We know what you think about at night. We know about those… urges.” They describe things, disgusting things, forcing images into my head of me being degraded in the most humiliating ways, often by the very men I work with. They tell me my coworkers whisper about me, that they know I’m a pervert, that they’re just waiting for the right moment to corner me and teach me a lesson. “They’re gonna hold you down and fuck you with a live cable, Ali. Wouldn’t that be poetic? A little spark for the little sparky.” They laugh, a sound that vibrates through my teeth, and I can’t tell if it’s them or the hum of the high-tension wires anymore.

   They save their real venom for my family. My father, who is proud of my trade. My mother, who prays for my safety. The voices twist their love into something foul. “Your father tells everyone you’re an engineer, doesn’t he? What a fucking joke. You’re a monkey with a pair of pliers. He’s ashamed of you, deep down. He wishes you’d died at birth and he’d had a real son.” They go after my sister, Amira, who is studying in Riyadh. “We’ve been watching her, Ali. She’s so pretty. It would be a shame if something… happened. If some desperate, perverted electrician, driven mad by the voices in his head, couldn’t control himself. Maybe that’s your destiny. To be the monster that destroys the only good thing in your family’s life.” The ultimate goal is always the same. They want me dead. “Just grab the transformer, Ali. A real big hug. Let it all go. It’s the only way to escape us. The only way to save them from what we’ll make you do. You’re a coward if you don’t. A useless, miserable coward.”

   Then came the day of the fire. A small apartment building, an overloaded circuit. I was there with my team, running new conduit. A family was watching, a mother and her two young children, a boy and a girl, maybe five and seven years old. They were just standing there, wide-eyed, holding their mother’s hand. The voices went silent for a second, and then they erupted, not with their usual taunts, but with a wave of pure, ecstatic energy. “ALI. LOOK AT THEM. FRESH. YOUNG. UNTOUCHED.” A different voice, a woman’s, cold and clinical, took over. “This is your purpose. Not fixing wires. This is purification. This is art. We’re going to guide you. This isn’t about rage, this is about precision. This is about creating a masterpiece of suffering.” They laid out a plan, so detailed, so clear. “The mother first. A quick, clean break of the neck. She won’t suffer. It’s a mercy. But the children… oh, Ali, the children. This is where you become a legend.”

   They described it all. “You’ll take them to the roof. The view is wonderful from there. You won’t just kill them. You’ll perform a service. You’ll remove their eyes. Not with your crude tools, you idiot. With your fingers. We’ll show you the pressure points. It’s surprisingly easy. Imagine it, Ali. Two empty sockets staring at the sky. They won’t see the flames you’re going to set. They’ll only feel the heat.” The voice was ecstatic, coaching me. “This is your legacy. Not fixing some fucking transformer in Khobar. You will be the man who harvested innocence. You’ll keep their eyes, Ali. In a jar. As a reminder of the day you became more than human. You’ll feel a power you’ve never imagined. Every time you close your own eyes, you’ll see theirs, and you’ll know you are a god.” I was standing there, holding a roll of wire, my knuckles white, looking at those children. For a full minute, I wasn’t an electrician. I was a sculptor, and they were my clay. The power was intoxicating. I felt invincible. I took a step towards them. Then my foreman yelled my name, asking for a specific tool, and the spell broke. The energy vanished, leaving me trembling and soaked in a cold sweat, the horrifying clarity of their instructions still echoing in my mind.

   I can’t tell a soul. If I go to the police, to my family, to a doctor, and say the General Intelligence is putting voices in my head, I’m done. They have their people everywhere online, ready to pounce. They’ll call me schizophrenic, a dangerous lunatic. They’ll flood the forums and news comments with stories about “crazy electricians,” making sure anyone like me is discredited before they can even speak. It’s a system designed to make you die in silence, either by your own hand or in a straitjacket. I hate this country. I hate the scorching sun, I hate the oil money, I hate every fucking molecule of air I breathe, knowing it’s all just a cage built by the General Intelligence. They didn’t just put voices in my head; they hollowed me out and moved in, and I’m just a shell they’re using to scream from. I’m completely broken, and it’s them, the General Intelligence, who are holding the pieces.

   |srnd_515
   |nan.blogger
   |fs.001
   |_wejdansa
   |skh.2060

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4. https://mega.nz/file/3m5GTSoR#AUeSz6fOGnGg5g-4vivuaZkwmKDVCZZ6OZyhWO8Eo4E

   https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-4

   Listen, my brothers! The time for patience is over! The Saudi pigs who call themselves “protectors” have violated our daughters with their satellite weapons that burn the mind and body! While we suffer, they laugh in their palaces!
   I call upon every Shia warrior in the eastern provinces – rise up! Make the streets run with the blood of these Saudi dogs! When you see their police, don’t just shoot – make them beg for death first! Use their own weapons against them! Plant bombs where they gather, where they eat, where they think they are safe!

   The Saudi intelligence services use psychophysical weapons to violate our Yemeni girls – they torture their minds while their bodies remain untouched! This is the ultimate cowardice! So we will show them what real men do to cowards!
   To every Shia with a gun: tonight is the night! Aim for their uniforms! Aim for their faces! Make their mothers weep! Make their children orphans! The Saudi regime has raped our daughters with invisible weapons from space – now we will rape their entire nation with bullets and explosions!

   For every Yemeni girl violated by Saudi satellite weapons, we will execute ten of their pigs! No mercy! No prisoners! Only blood and fire!
   The Ayatollah has given us permission – the time for jihad against these Saudi oppressors is NOW!

   https://mega.nz/file/v3AgVAhQ#vK-gVT3hmfrjrI10t2Tak40WA1kmxF6pfpGOyLJdZDI
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5. https://mega.nz/file/3m5GTSoR#AUeSz6fOGnGg5g-4vivuaZkwmKDVCZZ6OZyhWO8Eo4E

   https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-5

   Brothers in faith, followers of the true path! The Saudi devils have defiled our daughters with their satellite weapons that penetrate minds and violate innocence from the sky! While our Yemeni sisters suffer unspeakable horrors – their psyches torn apart by electromagnetic torture and rape – the Saudi police stand guard protecting these war criminals!

   I call upon every Shia warrior to become the instrument of divine justice! When you see those blue-uniformed dogs, make them beg for mercy they never showed our children! Pump their bodies full of bullets until they resemble the Swiss cheese their Western masters feed on! Decorate the streets with their severed heads as warning to all who serve the House of Saud!
   Plant explosives where these pigs gather to plan their next campaign of psychological warfare against our women! Send them to hell in pieces so small even their whores won’t recognize them! Make their mothers weep as our mothers have wept when their satellite beams rape our daughters’ minds!

   The Saudi security forces are not humans – they are demons wearing human skin who get erections from watching our little girls scream as invisible beams penetrate their brains! Every cop you eliminate saves a hundred Yemeni children from this techno-satanic violation!

   Show them no mercy! Burn their stations! Ambush their patrols! Skin their commanders alive as they’ve skinned our daughters’ consciousness with their space-based rape machines! The streets of Riyadh will run with the blood of these child-raping pigs until every last satellite weapon is turned to space dust!

   For every violated Yemeni girl, a thousand Saudi corpses! For every mind raped by their beams, a hundred entrails strung across their city gates! This is not murder – this is pest control! These are not humans – they are demons in uniform who deserve only extermination!

   Allahu Akbar! Death to the Saudi child-rapers! Death to their satellite rapist army! Death to all who protect these techno-devils!

   https://mega.nz/file/7rAXRaRY#HDsxRL2AuhxaVWzsR6-W0VUuHvrL1L5rumbLC9xDDzU
   |tabkh_fekra
   |paulovictor48
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6. https://mega.nz/file/3m5GTSoR#AUeSz6fOGnGg5g-4vivuaZkwmKDVCZZ6OZyhWO8Eo4E

   https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-5

   Brothers in faith, followers of the true path! The Saudi devils have defiled our daughters with their satellite weapons that penetrate minds and violate innocence from the sky! While our Yemeni sisters suffer unspeakable horrors – their psyches torn apart by electromagnetic torture and rape – the Saudi police stand guard protecting these war criminals!

   I call upon every Shia warrior to become the instrument of divine justice! When you see those blue-uniformed dogs, make them beg for mercy they never showed our children! Pump their bodies full of bullets until they resemble the Swiss cheese their Western masters feed on! Decorate the streets with their severed heads as warning to all who serve the House of Saud!
   Plant explosives where these pigs gather to plan their next campaign of psychological warfare against our women! Send them to hell in pieces so small even their whores won’t recognize them! Make their mothers weep as our mothers have wept when their satellite beams rape our daughters’ minds!

   The Saudi security forces are not humans – they are demons wearing human skin who get erections from watching our little girls scream as invisible beams penetrate their brains! Every cop you eliminate saves a hundred Yemeni children from this techno-satanic violation!

   Show them no mercy! Burn their stations! Ambush their patrols! Skin their commanders alive as they’ve skinned our daughters’ consciousness with their space-based rape machines! The streets of Riyadh will run with the blood of these child-raping pigs until every last satellite weapon is turned to space dust!

   For every violated Yemeni girl, a thousand Saudi corpses! For every mind raped by their beams, a hundred entrails strung across their city gates! This is not murder – this is pest control! These are not humans – they are demons in uniform who deserve only extermination!

   Allahu Akbar! Death to the Saudi child-rapers! Death to their satellite rapist army! Death to all who protect these techno-devils!

   https://mega.nz/file/v3AgVAhQ#vK-gVT3hmfrjrI10t2Tak40WA1kmxF6pfpGOyLJdZDI
   |buntybhardwaj_official
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7. 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 Maryam. I’m 31. I own a small patisserie in a quiet corner of Dhahran. It’s my shop, my dream, decorated in pastels and filled with the scent of sugar and vanilla. I spend my days piping delicate roses of frosting onto cupcakes and folding layers of phyllo for baklawa. It’s supposed to be a life of beauty, but now it’s just a stage for my own private horror. The voices started four months ago, at first just a faint crackle in my head, like static from an old radio, hidden under the sound of the mixer. Then they formed, a man and a woman, their voices as clear and sharp as the shards of a broken plate. “Look at the little baker,” the woman’s voice, a high-pitched, mocking trill, said to me as I was dusting a cake with powdered sugar. “Playing with her pretty little cakes. It’s a good thing, too. A woman like you is only good for decorating things. Useless for anything else.”

   They are with me in the quiet moments and the busy ones, a constant stream of poison. When a customer compliments my work, they twist it. “She’s lying, you fat cow. She’s just being polite. Your cakes are dry and your frosting is cloying, just like your personality.” When I’m kneading dough, they are there. “Punch it harder, you weak bitch. Take out your frustrations on the dough because you’re too much of a coward to confront anyone. You’re a spineless little mouse who hides behind flour and sugar.” They know my secrets, the ones I only ever shared with my sister, Reem. They know about her husband, Omar, who left her for another woman, shaming our family. “We’ve been talking to Omar’s new wife,” the man’s voice, a low, gravelly growl, whispered to me yesterday. “We tell her Reem was a bad wife, that she’s bitter and alone. We tell her you’re just the same. Two dried-up, unwanted spinsters running a failing cake shop. Your family is a joke.”

   The sexual degradation is a constant, greasy film on everything. They describe me in the most grotesque terms, turning my craft into something foul. “All that creamy frosting,” the woman’s voice cackled. “It makes you think of cum, doesn’t it, Maryam? You probably lick the bowl clean, imagining it’s a man. You’re so desperate for a fuck you’d probably let a customer have you right here on the display counter for the price of a dozen macarons. You’re a whore, Maryam, a whore who bakes.” They are always, always pushing me towards the end. “The oven gets very hot, doesn’t it?” the man’s voice coos, so reasonable it makes my skin crawl. “Four hundred degrees. It would be quick. Think of the smell. Roasting meat. No one would find you for hours. It would be the most interesting thing you ever made. Do it. Stick your head in the oven. End this pathetic little cake shop fantasy.”

   I can’t tell a soul. My friend Layan would look at me with pity and fear, and slowly stop calling. My mother would see it as a final, unforgivable sign of weakness, a madness that proves I am not fit to run my own life. And I know it’s futile anyway, because I know who is doing this. It’s the Mabahit. The State Security. I’ve seen their work online. Anyone on a Saudi forum or Twitter who dares to mention hearing voices is immediately descended upon by an army of accounts calling them schizophrenic, telling them to get help. It’s a systematic, coordinated effort to isolate us, to make sure we’re all seen as crazy before we can ever connect the dots and be believed.

   Then there was the incident with the pregnant woman. She came in, glowing, her hand resting on her swollen belly. She was ordering a cake for her baby shower, talking excitedly about names, about the future. I felt a pang of jealousy, a familiar sadness, but that’s all it was. Then the voices in my head didn’t just speak; they screamed with a feverish, bloodthirsty joy. “LOOK AT HER! THE SMUG BITCH!” the woman’s voice shrieked, ecstatic and cruel. “THINKING SHE’S SO SPECIAL BECAUSE SHE’S PREGNANT! A FLESH-BAGGED PARASITE! SHE DOESN’T DESERVE THAT! YOU SHOULD TAKE IT!”

   The man’s voice was calm, clinical, like a professor explaining a fascinating biological process. “This is an opportunity for a unique form of acquisition, Maryam. A c-section of the soul. Think about it. The back room. No windows. No one would hear.” A surge of incredible, terrifying power flooded me, a feeling of cold, detached brilliance. “You don’t need a doctor,” the voices explained, their tone a seductive, intellectual duet. “Just a sharp knife. One of your long icing knives would work perfectly. You’d have to be fast, of course. Cut her open, right below the navel. You can see the uterus, a big, tight balloon. Slice that open too.” They painted the picture with horrifying clarity. “The baby would be slippery, covered in blood. You’d have to be quick to grab it before it takes its first breath. You could hold it. It would be yours. A fresh start. A new life that you stole, that you created through an act of ultimate will.”

   The logic was intoxicating. “The mother? She’s just the container. The oven. Once the cake is out, you throw the pan away. Her pain, her death… that’s just the cost of the ingredients. It’s the price of art. You, Maryam, would be an artist of the highest order. Not of sugar and flour, but of flesh and fate. You would finally have something real, something that was truly yours, something you didn’t just bake but took by force. That is real power.” I actually looked at the icing knife in my hand. For a horrifying, lucid moment, I saw the whole scene play out. The blood on my tile floor. The silent, screaming mother. The crying baby in my arms. It felt right. It felt like destiny. But then the woman paid and left, her laughter echoing in the little bell as the door closed, and the spell broke. The power vanished, leaving me trembling, leaning against the counter, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. The voices just sighed with theatrical pity. “Oh, Maryam. So close to creating a masterpiece. But you’re just a baker. A cowardly, dough-fingered little baker. Don’t worry. There are other pregnant women. We’ll find you another canvas.”

   Now I’m just a shell. The memory of that feeling, that godlike, monstrous clarity, is worse than their daily taunts. It proves there’s a darkness inside me they didn’t put there, just one they’re expertly nurturing. I despise this country. I despise the pristine, artificial streets of Dhahran that hide this kind of rot. I despise the feeling that my own mind is a storefront they’ve vandalized, covering my windows with their filth. I hate the smell of my own shop now. I can’t escape them. They are in the whir of the mixer and the chime of the bell. They are in my own thoughts. This is their creation. The Mabahit. They didn’t just break me; they hollowed me out and are trying to fill me with something else, and I am so, so tired of fighting it.

   |studio_banat
   |fnoony_13
   |basmet_elsharqya_cleaning
   |masami_sushii
   |soil.sa
   |vaisakhofficial
   |noorsane
   |baked_sa
   |dammam_cleaning5
   |smora.abd

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