NYPD. Brooklyn Branch, 191 Union Street.
From the outside, it looked like a beautiful and large police department, but inside, it was a hangout for criminals dressed in police uniforms.
Inside, those policemen were drinking alcohol and gambling with their shirts unbuttoned. Suddenly, their police department's security alarm started sound.
Then those policemen hurriedly adjusted their dresses, took their pistols in their hands, they reached the main hall and saw Fahad.
Fahad did not get up when the police entered.
He was already seated.
A simple wooden chair stood in the center of the NYPD Department, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above. Badges lined the walls, but Fahad relaxed slightly, leaning back in his chair, as if the room was his. His feet rested flat on the floor, not crossed.
One hand rested placidly on his knee.
There was a pencil being held by the other hand.
He threw it upwards with lazy accuracy.
Catch!
Toss
Catch.
The pencil flew through the air, touching his fingers each time it came back with a barely audible click that was somehow louder than the silence in the room.
The police officers stopped a few steps away.
Uniforms. Weapons. Power
Fahad did not look impressed.
He didn't straighten up. He didn't stop playing with the pencil. His eyes, slowly, met their gaze with a calmness that was like a man listening to a conversation whose ending he already knew.
Again, the pencil appeared.
For police, being authoritative meant standing tall, speaking in firm voices, and exercising control.
For Fahad, power was the act of sitting down, relaxed, unmindful, and untouched.
Another toss.
The room was waiting for his words.
Then he spoke.
"Do you know which is more powerful," he said softly, "a pen… or a gun?"
The room stayed still.
Fahad let the silence breathe. His eyes moved across them, measuring, weighing, then he spoke again, quieter this time, almost casual.
"It's never about what rests in your hand," he said. "Steel or ink makes no difference."
He leaned back, unbothered.
"What matters," Fahad continued, "is whether you know where to apply pressure… and how long to hold it."
A faint pause.
"Because in the right hands," he added, "both can end things long before anyone hears the sound."
The commissioner was sitting on the fourth floor. He was sitting and working. Suddenly, he heard a strange sound from the ground floor.
The commissioner went downstairs to find out what the noise was. Then he went down and was completely shocked by what he saw, he was speechless, he couldn't believe his eyes.
The entire ground floor was covered in blood, all the policemen were dead. It looked like they had been killed in a very bad, horrible way.
Fahad suddenly came like a ghost and stood behind the Commissioner. When the Commissioner realized that someone was behind him, his whole body froze. He couldn't look back. The commissioner had lost the courage to see who was standing behind him.
Fahad leaned in close to the commissioner's ear and whispered,
"You enjoyed it, didn't you? Ordering the rape of those girls… then framing their brother in a false case and sending him to his death. It must have felt powerful."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"Now it's my turn to feel that pleasure, when I carve a hole straight through your brain."
Fahad didn't wait.
He moved close enough for his breath to reach the commissioner's ear. The pencil rose once, precise, deliberate and disappeared at the side of the man's head, where thoughts are weakest and silence comes fastest.
There was no struggle. No final word.
Power left the commissioner's body before it reached the floor. Fahad released the pencil and stepped back, as if finishing a routine task.
Judgment had been delivered. Quietly.
(Frankie Teardrop song plays in upper floor)
Fahad looked up to see the direction from which the song was playing.
Fahad followed the sound of that song and reached room number '320' on the 3rd floor.
Fahad shoved the door open.
Inside, someone was already seated. In his hands was a photograph of Farooq, Fahad's brother, and Faisal, Fahad's father, standing side by side.
The man slowly turned his head.
It was Colonel Jafar.
He looked straight at Fahad and said calmly,
"Welcome, Fahad Al Karim. The Gentleman. Son of Faisal."
He gestured to the chair in front of him.
"Sit."
To Be Continued...