Chapter 0
When the enemy takes root within the very flesh.
A far more intricate battle begins.
The haunting dread of losing one’s self.
Becomes a terror far more profound than death itself.
An uneven struggle.
And a gambit fraught with peril.
In the city of Al-Sadeem...
Fasting is no mere ritual; It is a desperate weapon for survival.
Memory Race: Deception of the Senses“Trust neither what you feel... nor what you remember.”
Note: The world of Memory Race inspires this exclusive novel: The Oblivion Code, published by Bibliomania Publishing & Distribution, Egypt, 2026.
****
Introduction
Many may believe that “Science Fiction” is strictly confined to deep space, robotics, time travel, or superhuman feats. However, let me assure you... Deception of the Senses is not built upon such foundations. It is, instead, deeply rooted in realism—grounded extensively in scientific facts that you will unravel alongside the characters with ease, gaining insight as they do.
The protagonists of this tale are not legendary figures; they are ordinary individuals who may resemble you more closely than you might imagine.
If you wish to discover how a subtle shift within the brain can turn a person’s world upside down, then welcome to the universe of Memory Race.
Before you begin, I shall leave you with a single question: “Is memory another face of identity?”
The answer lies within these pages.
The Author
***
Prologue
“The mortuary,” I told him, “is a place where time simply stands still.”
He smiled. “Do you not realize that the dead are the most loquacious of all? They speak of the past, the present, and even the future.”
I offered a cynical half-smile, dismissing it as the typical hyperbole of forensic pathologists—death, after all, is their constant companion. Yet, his calm, resolute expression suggested he meant every word. All I could discern of his features was that smile, framed by a dense, encroaching shadow. I looked around, perplexed; there was nothing between us but a hollow void and the gathering gloom. I longed to press him for his meaning, to demand an explanation of this strange place we inhabited, but something held me back. When I turned to look again, he had drifted away.
I wish I had asked. I wish I hadn’t let him keep his secrets from me—I, who was his closest confidant. I hurried after him, hoping to catch him, but he was too swift. He vanished.
Then...
The darkness shattered. I was plunged into a light so searing it forced my eyes shut. A familiar scent beckoned my senses back to reality. I looked again: apparatus, instruments, glass funnels. I was in the laboratory. The sterile aroma of pharmaceuticals mingled strangely with the scent of incense wafting from the houses near the National Medical Centre in the city of Al-Sadeem.
The clock struck three in the afternoon. The Asr call to prayer echoed from the minarets; a long day of fasting was drawing to its close. But here, in my sanctuary of work, I was not merely contending with an empty stomach—I was facing Memory itself.
Under the microscope, I examined a neural tissue sample. The shriveling of the neurons struck me, the loss of their dendritic spines—as if they belonged to an elderly man ravaged by dementia, his brain crushed under the weight of years and infirmity. I turned my gaze to the case file. To my horror, it belonged to a youth of merely fifteen.
How could his cells have perished so? How could his memories have incinerated with such ferocity? Where had his neuroplasticity vanished? Was this the toll of mobile radiation?
I felt it then... a true assassination. An assassination of a different kind...
An assassination of identity.
And when I cast my eyes to the top of the medical record to find his name, terror seized me. There, it read: “Kamel Murad Fadl.”
I recoiled, a cry escaping my lips: “Impossible! Not again... not again!”
Maher bolted upright in bedroll, gasping for air. It took a full minute for his surroundings to coalesce.
He found himself amidst piles of crates and scrap, lying on a bedroll on the floor. Faint light peered bashfully through a solitary small window, aided by a dim bulb hanging from the warehouse ceiling. He exhaled a ragged breath and reached for a tablet near his pillow. In its reflection, he saw a pale, gaunt face, long brown hair, and a thick beard.
He bore no resemblance to the man in the dream—the city’s pre-eminent neurologist and its most renowned expert in genetic engineering, with his pristine white coat and elegant appearance.
The wretchedness of his reflection threatened to drag his mind back into old tragedies. He ignored his features and checked the time: 1:00 AM. It was the first day of the holy month of Ramadan. He pressed a hand to his brow, his voice thick with anguish:
“Had I understood the weight of your words, I would never have committed the most heinous act of my life.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, puffed thrice to his left, and whispered the Mu’awwidhatayn. After a heavy silence, he gathered the fragments of his dream and murmured, his chest tightening with dread:
“What could it possibly mean?”
To be continued...
