“This is not a transceiver,” Hakim said, tapping the Xiaomi. “It only listens. And a man who cannot listen is already dead.”

They fled into the orchards as the first mortar whistled down. The Xiaomi stayed behind, cracked screen facing the stars, its last whisper still echoing in the dust: The bridge is still ours.

Hakim had no use for Bluetooth. He had no songs to stream, no phone to pair. What he needed was the short crackle of a human voice.