LFME-s.1

S C E N E (I) — BEIRUT, 2024ce

The Jew of Beirut arrives like a ghost falling through layers of time, dragging with him war names and worn-out dreams. They call him Sebastian Adonaev—“Abu Yazan” to some, “Kawa Zivistan” to others, but no one agrees on where he belongs. He claims no tribe, yet tries to belong to all. He walks into Beirut not as a savior, not even a tourist, but as something older, something broken and raw. They say he’s kind, but also that he has that look—the madness that lingers in the eyes of those who’ve been too close to war, and came back wanting to be poets.

He bleeds sincerity, cracks jokes in Arabic, and pours his wallet into chai and cab fare. Some call him righteous, others just confused. He shows up talking about confederations and shared struggles, about love as revolution and borders as lies. But this city doesn’t care about poetry. Beirut eats kindness for breakfast. One minute he’s a guest; the next, he’s on the ground in Chiya with a gun in his ribs and cuffs on his wrists. He didn’t even see it coming. He was knocking on doors. Looking for something—an old address, a lost friend, the edge of the map.

They drag him down the cracked pavement, crowd gathering. His mind fractures. Voices in his head scream orders. Yaelle—his Vice President, his conscience—berates him. Another voice, deeper, ancient, urges violence. He listens. “Kujichagulia!” he roars, slams into the cop, runs like a wild dog through unlit streets. In his mind, Karessa falls from a plane. Blood on Martyr Square. Reality bends. Beirut opens its mouth wide, and he dives in—into the dark between worlds—where memory, myth, and madness blur. And maybe, just maybe, he sees the eye of God staring back.