Cryptocurrency is Deek’s final attempt at turning his life around, and he refuses to give up.
Travelize
After finishing his salat, as Zaid rose, Deek admitted, “I’m at a loss on what to do next. I can’t return to Rania without something—her sign, some indication of what I should do.”
Zaid prodded, “Then why not give her something in return? What have you shown her so far?”
The questions unsettled Deek, and he instinctively pushed them aside. Noticing his silence, Zaid suggested, “Maybe you could check into a hotel for a few days.”
“I’m not exactly flush right now. There’s money on its way, but my liquid cash is only about one hundred fifty dollars,” Deek replied.
Zaid teased, “Wasn’t it a million dollars you mentioned giving?”
Deek chuckled, “Yes, but that’s in crypto—it’s locked in a wallet, not cash.”
“Surely there’s a hotel that takes crypto?” asked Zaid.
After a brief pause and a self-reproachful slap to his forehead, Deek exclaimed, “Of course there is! There’s Travelize—a crypto platform that lets you book hotels and flights. I even own Travelize tokens!”
Glancing at his nearly depleted phone battery, he quickly searched and discovered several hotels in Fresno partnering with Travelize. While many were modest Motel Sixes, Hampton Inns, or Comfort Inns, one high-end boutique hotel stood out—the Marco Polo. Its Venetian Suite was priced at $1,550 a night in dollars, but Travelize accepted multiple cryptocurrencies. With confidence in his newfound wealth, Deek booked a week-long stay.
Allah, Deen, Family
Zaid mentioned that the Namer had allowed Deek to keep the flannel pajamas, which oddly lifted his spirits. There was something deeply special about returning to this place—even if he never met the woman he imagined to be there.
As the two finished extinguishing candles and left the house together, Deek hesitated. “I can’t believe we’re leaving the door unlocked. It’s absurd.”
Zaid’s troubled silence spoke volumes.
Deek pressed on, “And now you want to remind me to go back to my family?”
Zaid shrugged. “It’s all up to you. Think about it—Allah, faith, family, meaningful work, and a chance to do good in the world. And if you really want to divest a million dollars, consider donating to the charities in Gaza. The situation there is heartbreaking, and it would purify your wealth.”
Deek grunted in agreement. “That’s a thought,” he mused before adding, “Maybe I should even change my name to Asad.”
Zaid raised an eyebrow. “That’s a big decision.”
“Not the family name—just my first, and only in everyday use. I’m still deciding.”
With that, they parted with a firm handshake.
The Marco Polo
The Marco Polo Hotel was a vision of refined elegance. Spanning four stories with just 20 spacious suites, each floor evoked a different aspect of Marco Polo’s adventures. The lobby boasted plush velvet armchairs with intricately carved wooden frames, complemented by cushions in shades of aquamarine and deep wine-red. Live olive trees in stylish planters reached toward a lofty ceiling, while Murano glass sculptures of seabirds refracted sunlight into a mesmerizing display.
One corner of the lobby featured a full-sized vintage gondola converted into a cozy reading nook, complete with velvet upholstery. Inside, a young woman in a flowing yellow dress scrolled on her phone, while at her side a tall, bald gentleman in a suit quietly perused his newspaper.
Deek checked into the Venetian Suite on the fourth floor. Standing in the doorway, the keycard still warm in his hand, he let his gaze wander across the room. Sunlit gold hues bathed the space—cream drapes framed tall windows, a vaulted ceiling was painted in soft, cloud-like patterns, and polished marble floors shimmered like liquid light. The only sound was that of delicate water trickling from a central fountain.
At the heart of the suite, a fountain crafted from Carrara marble rose gracefully. Meticulously carved lion heads—fierce and proud—spouted gentle arcs of water into a shallow basin. The beauty of the piece was almost surreal, and as Deek circled it, he felt as though the lion eyes were silently judging him.
Sinking onto the edge of the sumptuous bed, he marveled at the barely yielding mattress and the silky sheets that felt too perfect to be real.
Dislocation
Despite having paid in full for the week, Deek couldn’t shake an inner unease. The suite, with its artful lighting and luxurious decor—from the gleaming fountain and sparkling chandelier to the velvet chairs and antique desk—only deepened a subtle sense of alienation. A hollow ache in his chest whispered of long-lost familiarity.
Memories flooded back of a humble couch with worn brown corduroy, the creaks of a weathered apartment floor, the hiss of a temperamental heater, and cramped living spaces shared with family. Despite its imperfections, that small apartment had been home.
Adjusting his pace, he approached a writing desk adorned with mother-of-pearl inlays and blue velvet-lined drawers. Inside, he discovered thick cream stationery and an old-fashioned pen reminiscent of a Venetian council chamber relic. Unsure of what to write or even how to properly settle into such an elegant chair, he lingered.
The minibar tempted him with bottles of unfamiliar spirits, and an on-wall music panel offered a playlist titled Venezia Notte—but nothing stirred him to action in that finely curated lounge of luxury.
The First to Pray
Remembering his father’s words—that every corner of the earth on which a man prays bears witness for him on the Day of Judgment—Deek wondered if anyone had ever prayed in this exquisite suite. Perhaps he could be the first.
Stepping into an opulent bathroom that rivaled a palace, he took in its cream marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, a grand arched mirror, and a freestanding octagonal bathtub nestled in a niche decorated with intricate mosaic tiles. Cabinets of rich wood lined the walls, and a delicate pair of plush slippers lay by the tub.
Then, his breath caught. Draped over a wooden bench was a thick white robe embroidered with the initials DS—clearly his own. The overwhelming sense of strangeness, rather than opulence, gripped him. With trembling hands, he performed his wudu’, then used a towel as a makeshift prayer mat to offer his ‘Ishaa prayer in the sitting room. In that moment, a quiet reassurance took hold: despite all that had changed, Allah remained constant, and he was, as ever, a servant of the Almighty.
A Long Way From the Moon Walk
As night fell, Deek struggled with the chandelier’s controls, unable to pinpoint a switch to dim the sparkling lights. Instead, he slipped into the plush robe and reclined on the bed, the tender murmur of the lion fountain accompanying his solitude.
Thoughts of Rania crept into his mind—she was probably engrossed in her favorite pastime of quilting, a ritual that eased her into restful sleep. It felt surreal to be so far removed from the Moon Walk Motel and its sagging mattress—a place that had once offered a strange comfort, even through the trauma of his past kidnapping.
The memory of that violent episode played out like a cinematic flashback—a dramatic scene complete with its own score. The pain and terror remained distant, almost as if belonging to another lifetime.
Now, bolstered by his recent windfall, he could afford security, comfort, and tranquility. Yet, amid all the luxury, he found himself adrift, uncertain of his next step.
Fair Weather Friends
The following morning, the suite was bathed in the aroma of sunlight and saffron. Clad in a monogrammed robe, Deek sat at the edge of his silk-draped bed. A room service tray lay before him as he gently tore a buttery croissant, the sound of its flaky crust mingling with the rich, honeyed scent. He dipped a piece into a small cup of robust espresso, the bitter steam stark against the sweet morning air, and savored each deliberate bite as the gentle gurgle of the marble fountain provided a rhythmic backdrop.
Despite the serene ambience of velvet and marble, an inner unease persisted. Awakening from deep, disorienting sleep left him with a vague sense of being unmoored—as if surfacing from warm water only to find the shore unknown.
A glance at his phone revealed a cluster of new voicemails—a startling nine, compared to just a few the previous day. Only one known number, that of Faraz, a long-time friend and crypto confidant, registered on the screen.
Faraz’s enthusiastic message arrived first, filled with praise and excitement over Deek’s recent digital windfall. His voice conveyed a mixture of admiration and disbelief as he recounted tracking Deek’s wallet activity. The realization struck Deek: every on-chain move is transparent. The thrill of his success was now attracting unexpected attention.
A series of subsequent messages—casual overtures for coffee and catch-ups from acquaintances who had once barely acknowledged him—filled the remainder of the inbox. The transformation was unmistakable. Just a month ago, he had been invisible. Now, overnight, he was treated like an old friend, a long-lost brother. Bitterness welled up in him; he had never sought out this newfound spotlight.
Frustrated, he deleted message after message. Then he sent a terse reply to Faraz, admonishing him for sharing more than he’d expected. The simple act of tapping his thumb against the phone felt both final and relieving.
Setting the device aside, Deek tried to lose himself in the gentle gurgle of the fountain, even as the weight of isolation bore down on him. Surrounded by luxury, he still felt alone.
Charts on Cracked Screens
A quick text reply from Faraz arrived, filled with sincere apologies and reassurances of confidentiality. Faraz’s words reminded Deek of their long history—days spent poring over crypto charts on battered screens and sharing dreams over cups of Turkish coffee in a masjid kitchen. Memories of Faraz’s infectious enthusiasm and unwavering support slowly coaxed a smile onto Deek’s face.
He responded, urging Faraz to keep a low profile and suggesting they meet up soon, inshaAllah.
Steak and Italian Shoes
Later that day, Deek made a significant purchase: two flat-screen monitors using $5,000 he had just transferred into his bank account. Dining alone at the hotel’s upscale restaurant, he savored classic American fare—Angus steak, wild-caught salmon, and gourmet burgers. Eschewing junk food, he preferred fresh, balanced meals as he studied the latest crypto news on his phone, dismissing any further voicemails without a second thought.
The hotel also featured a boutique offering tailored suits and sophisticated Italian shoes. On a whim, Deek acquired three new outfits, each expense conveniently charged to his room and paid in cryptocurrency.
Back in his workspace, he resumed trading with renewed vigor. The mysterious influence of the Namer’s potion seemed to heighten his performance. His body was healing, and his mind had become sharp and decisive—if a bit emotionally muted. Even as some speculative AI tokens plunged near zero, a few others surged spectacularly. One token soared by thirty times its value, netting him over ten million dollars. He wisely converted 90% of that profit, parking half in stablecoins as a safeguard while venturing the other half into modest low-cap projects, a meme coin, and a new NFT venture. By day’s end, his net worth had leaped past the hundred-million mark.
The Namer’s Potion
Sitting in a well-appointed hotel office that was a world away from the cramped closet in which he had labored for five long years, Deek couldn’t help but harbor resentment toward Rania. She had once confined him to that stifling space, much like a deformed and troubled relative hidden away from the world.
Yet, the lingering effects of the Namer’s potion allowed him to dismiss those resentments—a bittersweet reminder that her sacrifices had once held their own value even as financial failures piled up.
Throughout the day, Rania’s messages repeatedly asked why he wasn’t responding. Deek replied with noncommittal brevity, claiming he was busy. Despite the distance, he still missed Rania deeply. He recalled the early days of their marriage in a modest apartment on Millbrook Avenue, complete with a threadbare carpet and a temperamental air conditioner. In sweltering summers they’d find respite at a nearby park, sharing lunch beneath an elm tree. Their love had been tested by quarrels and hardships, yet forgiveness always prevailed.
But her words, calling him an “anchor” around her neck, haunted him. The sting of that phrase reverberated every time he considered returning to her embrace.
Sitting in his palatial suite, which felt as cool and comfortable as a crisp head of broccoli, Deek’s self-loathing surged. His pride and stubbornness cut deep, and in the quiet hours of the night, these feelings overwhelmed him with regret. Rich beyond his wildest dreams, he nonetheless felt profoundly isolated.
At two in the morning, unable to sleep, he ordered mac ‘n’ cheese from room service—an indulgence he felt he deserved. Delivered in a sturdy metal goblet, the dish evoked images of nobility even as he sat on the floor against the wall. With his chin tucked low and spoon in hand, his posture resembled that of a beggar silently imploring for lost connections.
Memories of Rania, Sanaya, Amira, Lubna, Zaid, old friends, and mentors flooded his mind. Surrounded by opulence—marble, gold, and high living—he was haunted by the echo of loneliness. As he ate, his strength drained away; the spoon slipped from his grasp, clattering against the marble. In that quiet moment, one might have believed he was awaiting the end.
[Part 11 will be published next week inshaAllah]
Embracing Faith, One Insight at a Time!
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