The room was too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that brought rest, or peace, or relief but the kind that pressed inward, shrinking the air until breathing itself felt like effort. The clinic lights hummed faintly above, white and merciless, casting shadows that refused to soften. Every surface smelled of antiseptic, sharp and clean, yet unable to erase the deeper scent beneath it blood, sweat, fear.
Akil sat upright on the edge of the narrow bed, his feet resting against the cold floor. The chill traveled up through his soles, grounding him in his body whether he wanted it or not. Bandages wrapped around his ribs, his knuckles, his forehead white against bruised skin. His chest rose and fell unevenly, every breath pulling pain through muscles that hadn't finished healing.
Pain came in waves.
Slow. Rhythmic. Relentless.
He welcomed it.
Pain meant he was still here.
Pain meant he hadn't died like she had.
What he couldn't escape was the silence.
The silence did not scream. It waited.
It held memories.
Footsteps approached outside the room. Akil didn't look up. He already knew who it was. The sound of those steps had followed him since childhood steady, unhurried, confident in their destination.
The door opened.
Akil stayed where he was, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the opposite wall.
Kashifuddin stepped inside and closed the door behind him without a sound. No knock. No announcement. Just presence.
He didn't speak immediately.
He stood there with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that felt almost disrespectful given the setting. His eyes moved over Akil's injuries methodically, not lingering too long on any one wound, but missing none of them. It was the same look he had always worn after a fight assessing, measuring, recording.
"How are you feeling?" Kashifuddin asked at last.
His voice was even. Calm. Controlled.
Akil let out a short, humorless laugh that scraped his throat.
"How do you think?" he replied.
Kashifuddin nodded once, as if the answer aligned perfectly with his expectations. He took a step closer, stopping a few feet away, careful not to crowd him.
"You'll recover," Kashifuddin said. "Your body is strong."
Akil's jaw tightened.
"That's what you say when someone survives," he muttered. "Not when someone wins."
Kashifuddin didn't react.
That lack of reaction it always did this. It made people feel like they were shouting into a void.
Akil finally turned to face him.
"You came to check if I'm alive," Akil said. "Congratulations. I am."
Kashifuddin met his gaze evenly. "I came because I wanted to see you."
Akil searched his face, trying to find something—regret, anger, guilt. Anything human.
He found nothing.
"You didn't want to see my sister," Akil said quietly.
The words dropped into the room like a blade hitting stone.
For the first time, something shifted in Kashifuddin's eyes. It was small. Fleeting. But Akil had known him too long to miss it.
"You remember her," Akil continued, his voice steady but tight, like a wire stretched to its limit. "You used to sit in our house. You used to eat her food. You laughed at her jokes. You called her your sister."
Images flooded his mind without permission his sister standing near the doorway, scolding Kashifuddin for tracking dirt inside, smiling despite herself. The way she used to say his name, teasing, familiar.
He stood up slowly, ignoring the sharp protest from his ribs. Pain flared bright and hot, but he welcomed it.
"You promised nothing would happen to her," Akil said.
Kashifuddin didn't interrupt.
"So tell me," Akil continued, turning fully now, "why did you let him walk away?"
Silence.
The silence was unbearable.
Akil laughed again, louder this time, bitter and cracked. "Don't pretend you couldn't stop him," he said. "I've seen you fight. Everyone has."
He took a step closer, closing the distance Kashifuddin had carefully left.
"You're the strongest man in this village," Akil said. "I've watched you end fights before they even began. Men bigger than him. Faster than him. Hungrier than him."
His voice began to rise, anger finally spilling over its edges.
"So don't tell me you were powerless."
Kashifuddin's voice remained calm. "Power isn't the same as action."
That was it.
Something inside Akil snapped not loudly, not dramatically, but cleanly. Like a thread pulled too far.
He shoved Kashifuddin.
Not hard.
Not to hurt him.
But enough.
"Don't talk to me like that," Akil said sharply. "Not after what happened."
Kashifuddin didn't step back. He didn't push forward either. He absorbed the shove without reaction, as if it were expected.
"You stood there," Akil continued, breathing unevenly now. "You watched him humiliate us. You watched him walk away smiling."
His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.
"And you waited."
Kashifuddin's eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"You waited to see if I could land a hit," Akil said. "Didn't you?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.
Kashifuddin didn't answer.
That silence was louder than any confession.
Akil staggered back half a step, as if struck.
"So that's what it was," he whispered. "A test."
Kashifuddin finally spoke. "This isn't"
"My sister died," Akil shouted. "And you were measuring me."
His voice broke, just enough to betray everything he had been holding back.
"Was she not worth crossing your rules?" Akil demanded. "Was she not worth getting your hands dirty?"
Ayaan stood near the wall, frozen, watching the room collapse inward. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat louder than the last. He wanted to speak. To say something anything but his throat felt locked, his tongue heavy.
Akil glanced at him.
"You tried to stop this," Akil said suddenly.
Ayaan flinched.
"You knew something was wrong," Akil continued. "Didn't you?"
Ayaan swallowed hard. "I..."
Akil turned back to Kashifuddin.
"You see?" Akil said. "Even he knew."
Kashifuddin's voice hardened. "This isn't about you proving yourself."
"Then what is it about?" Akil snapped. "Your reputation?"
The words landed true.
For the first time since entering the room, Kashifuddin stepped forward.
"Be careful," he said quietly.
Akil met his gaze without fear.
"I'm done being careful," he replied. "You chose restraint. That was your choice."
He stepped back toward the door.
"I'm choosing something else."
Kashifuddin's voice followed him. "If you walk out now, you don't walk back the same."
Akil paused, his hand resting on the handle.
"I already lost everything that mattered," he said. "Don't worry about what I become."
He opened the door.
Before leaving, he looked once more at Kashifuddin.
"I trusted you," Akil said. "That was my mistake."
Then he was gone.
The door closed softly, as if afraid of making noise.
The room felt hollow.
Ayaan's heart pounded violently in his chest.
"This is it," he whispered, barely audible. "This is where it starts."
Kashifuddin didn't look at him.
Outside, Akil's footsteps faded down the corridor, steady, purposeful.
Somewhere beyond the clinic walls, a man who had lost his sister walked alone toward a decision he would never undo.
And the first incident long delayed, long warned finally began to move.