Akil's legs finally betrayed him.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
They failed the way exhausted things fail—quietly, without permission.
The strength he had been forcing into his body for the last few minutes didn't vanish all at once. It leaked out of him, drop by drop, with every ragged breath, every tremor running through his battered frame. His knees buckled inward, muscles refusing commands they had followed all his life.
The world tilted.
Stone. Dirt. Blood.
The ground rushed up to meet him.
But it never did.
Something caught him.
A hand—firm, unyielding—wrapped around his shoulder and stopped the fall like gravity itself had been denied. The grip didn't shake. Didn't tighten. Didn't struggle.
It simply was.
Solid.
Reliable.
Unavoidable.
Akil gasped, air tearing into his lungs as if he had surfaced from deep water.
For a moment, his mind refused to accept what his body already knew. Shock clouded thought, pain drowned logic.
"…Kashif?" he whispered.
The word barely made it past his lips.
The ruins went dead silent.
Not the silence of waiting.
The silence of realization.
No laughter remained.
No mocking voices.
No careless footsteps scraping stone.
Dozens of men stood frozen mid-breath.
Kashifuddin stood behind Akil, one arm supporting him easily, as if the broken, bleeding weight leaning into him meant nothing at all. His posture was relaxed—almost disrespectfully so—yet his presence bent the air around him, thickened it, pressed down on everyone watching.
He looked past Akil.
Straight at Zarqael.
His eyes were cold.
Not angry.
Not vengeful.
Empty of emotion, the way deep water is empty until something drowns in it.
Zarqael straightened slowly.
For the first time that night, his smile didn't come easily. The relaxed curve of his lips faded—not completely, but enough to reveal what lay underneath.
Interest.
Caution.
Calculation.
"So," Zarqael said, rolling his shoulders, loosening his neck, voice steady despite the tension crawling up his spine, "you finally decided to show yourself."
The Eastern Branch shifted uneasily behind him.
Kashifuddin didn't answer.
He gently adjusted Akil's weight, guiding him aside just enough to keep him upright on his own feet. The movement was careful, almost respectful, as if acknowledging Akil's effort rather than dismissing it.
Only then did Kashif step forward.
One step.
That was all.
But the moment his foot touched the ground in front of Akil, the balance of the ruin changed.
"If anyone here thinks Akil has lost," Kashifuddin said calmly, his voice carrying through broken stone and open night, "fight me."
No threat.
No shout.
Just a statement of fact.
The words landed like a verdict passed long ago and only now announced.
A ripple passed through the Eastern Branch.
Men exchanged looks.
Hands twitched.
Spines stiffened.
Person 1 (whispering): "That's him…"
Person 2: "The Iron Circle leader."
Person 3: "He's… calm."
Zarqael's lips curved upward again, but this time the smile was thinner, sharper.
"I was starting to think the stories were exaggerated," he said. "The strongest man in the village hiding behind his men."
That sentence sealed it.
Zarqael lifted his guard, settling back into a perfect boxing stance. Feet light. Knees loose. Weight balanced. Every inch of his body trained for this distance.
"Come on then," he said. "Let's see—"
Kashifuddin moved.
There was no warning.
No shift in stance.
No breath taken.
One heartbeat, he was still.
The next—
His body twisted.
A roundhouse kick tore through the air.
Not fast.
Faster.
The motion was so clean it blurred against the moonlight, leg cutting an invisible arc through space. There was no wasted momentum, no flourish—just efficiency honed to cruelty.
The impact landed flush against Zarqael's head.
The sound came a split second later.
A brutal, cracking THUD that echoed off the ruin walls like a gunshot.
Blood burst from Zarqael's mouth.
Not a trickle.
A spray.
His body spun sideways, feet leaving the ground as if yanked by something unseen, and slammed into the dirt with bone-jarring force. Dust and shattered stone exploded outward on impact.
Silence.
Absolute.
For a breathless moment, no one moved.
Zarqael didn't move.
Akil stared.
His battered mind struggled to process what his eyes had just witnessed. The man who had dismantled him minutes ago… gone in one motion.
"That's…" Akil breathed, "…it?"
Kashifuddin didn't look back.
He didn't rush forward.
He didn't chase.
He simply stood there, eyes fixed on Zarqael's fallen form, waiting—like a man waiting to see if something was truly dead.
Slowly—painfully—Zarqael stirred.
A low groan crawled out of his throat as he rolled onto one elbow. Blood dripped from his mouth, streaking his chin, soaking into the dirt beneath him. His eyes burned now, not with confidence, but with something darker.
Humiliation.
"So that's how you fight," Zarqael spat. "One move—"
Kashifuddin stepped forward.
That single step erased the distance between them.
Zarqael reacted instantly.
Years of training took over. His guard snapped up, muscles coiling as he launched a sharp jab aimed straight at Kashif's face.
Kashif didn't dodge.
He leaned in.
The punch skimmed past his cheek, missing by inches, as Kashif's elbow dropped down like a hammer, smashing into Zarqael's forearm. Bone met bone with a dull crack.
Before Zarqael could register the pain, Kashif stepped inside his range and drove a knee into his ribs.
The sound was wrong.
Wet.
A sickening crack echoed.
Zarqael screamed.
Not a shout.
A reflex.
He staggered backward, gasping desperately for air that wouldn't come, only to be met by a straight punch to the sternum. The impact sent him flying backward into a broken pillar.
Stone shattered.
The pillar collapsed.
Zarqael slid down the rubble, coughing violently, blood spraying onto the dirt in harsh, uneven bursts.
The Eastern Branch froze.
No laughter now.
No mockery.
Only fear.
Kashifuddin didn't raise his voice.
"This ends here," he said.
And everyone believed him.
The silence didn't last.
It shattered.
A roar rose from the Eastern Branch—not confidence, not mockery, but panic struggling to disguise itself as anger. Boots scraped against stone. Someone cursed. Someone else shouted Zarqael's name like it might wake him from humiliation.
Kashifuddin didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
He could feel it—the shift in the crowd, the way fear fermented into desperation. Men who had laughed minutes ago now looked for exits. Men who had followed Zarqael out of loyalty now followed instinct instead.
Masleuddin stepped forward then, his presence sharp, controlled, eyes cutting through the chaos.
"This territory is no longer yours," he said clearly. "Red Hollow's Eastern Branch is finished here."
The words hit harder than any punch.
Anger exploded.
"YOU DON'T DECIDE THAT!" someone screamed.
Something spun through the air.
Glass.
A bottle.
Time fractured.
Ayaan saw it before anyone else—the jagged shape rotating violently, moonlight catching on its edges, its path aimed straight for Masleuddin's throat.
If that hits him, he dies.
There was no thought.
No fear.
Ayaan moved.
His body reacted before his mind could scream. He sprinted forward, heart slamming against his ribs, and launched himself into motion. Masleuddin twisted at the last possible second, the bottle slicing past his neck so close Ayaan felt the air move.
The bottle shattered against stone.
Glass rained down.
Shouts erupted.
"GET THEM!"
The Eastern Branch surged forward.
Everything collapsed into motion.
Kashifuddin turned.
And the moment he did, the fight changed.
He didn't charge.
He advanced.
A man rushed him from the left—Kashif stepped inside the attack and dropped him with a short, brutal strike to the throat. Another swung wildly—Kashif redirected the arm and slammed an elbow into the man's jaw, folding him instantly.
It wasn't flashy.
It was efficient.
Terrifying.
Ayaan found himself face to face with a man rushing him blindly. He barely had time to raise his guard before instinct took over—his foot snapped forward in a front kick, heel slamming into the man's chest.
The impact drove the air out of him.
The man flew backward, crashing into Zarqael's half-conscious body and knocking him flat again.
Ayaan stumbled back, chest heaving.
I did that.
The realization didn't bring pride.
Only fear.
Sirens.
Distant at first.
Then closer.
Someone screamed, "POLICE!"
Panic detonated.
Red Hollow scattered like animals caught in firelight. Men shoved past each other, leaping over fallen bodies, disappearing into the dark.
Masleuddin grabbed Kashifuddin's arm. "We have to move—now!"
Kashif nodded once.
He turned back toward Akil.
Akil was still standing.
Barely.
Blood soaked his shirt. His hands trembled violently. His eyes were locked on Zarqael, who lay on the ground gasping, choking, broken—but alive.
Too alive.
Akil took a step forward.
Masleuddin saw it and swore. "Akil—don't."
Akil didn't hear him.
All he could see was his sister's face.
All he could hear was her voice.
All he could feel was the weight crushing his chest.
Kashifuddin moved toward him. "Akil. It's over."
Akil shook his head slowly.
"No," he whispered. "It's not."
His hand closed around something cold.
Metal.
A knife.
Ayaan's breath caught.
"No—" he started.
Akil stepped closer to Zarqael.
Zarqael tried to lift his head, eyes unfocused, lips trembling. He saw Akil standing over him and smiled weakly, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
"You still… standing?" Zarqael rasped.
Akil raised the knife.
Masleuddin shouted his name.
Kashifuddin grabbed Akil's wrist.
Hard.
Akil froze.
For a moment, they stood like that—hand to wrist, blade trembling between them.
Akil looked at Kashifuddin.
Not with anger.
With pain.
"You stopped me once," Akil said hoarsely. "Don't stop me again."
Kashifuddin's jaw tightened.
Sirens wailed louder.
Closer.
He let go.
Akil hesitated.
Just a second.
Then—
Steel plunged down.
Not deep.
Not fatal.
A warning strike.
Zarqael screamed as the blade tore into flesh, pain ripping a sound out of him that didn't sound human.
Akil stumbled back, breathing hard.
Police lights flooded the ruins.
"DROP THE WEAPON!"
Akil raised his hands slowly.
The knife fell to the ground.
Kashifuddin grabbed Masleuddin. "Now."
Masleuddin didn't argue.
They ran.
Ayaan followed, heart pounding, ears ringing, the image burned into his mind.Akil standing alone, surrounded by blood and flashing lights.
Akil didn't run.
He didn't resist.
He stood there, breathing.
Waiting.
As hands grabbed him.
As cuffs clicked shut.
As the night swallowed the ruin.
And somewhere deep inside Ayaan, a terrible thought finally surfaced
This isn't the incident.
This is just the opening wound.