Three days had passed since the ruins.
Not the kind of days that healed wounds.
The kind that made them itch, throb, and remind you they were still there.
Three days since Akil was taken away in handcuffs, his back straight, his eyes empty, his choice already made.
Three days since Zarqael survived—breathing, existing, a reminder that justice did not always come clean.
Three days since Iron Circle stopped feeling like a single body and started feeling like something stitched together too tightly, every seam pulled thin.
Ayaan sat alone on the edge of a low stone wall near the fields, elbows resting on his knees, head lowered.
The soil beneath his feet was warm from the afternoon sun. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped lazily. A farmer shouted at his ox. Life continued, indifferent to what had cracked beneath it.
Akil got arrested…
Zarqael lived…
The thoughts repeated in his head like a chant he couldn't silence. Each time they surfaced, his chest tightened, breath growing shallow, as if the air itself refused to cooperate.
The incident had ended.
But nothing felt finished.
Iron Circle, on paper, was stronger than ever. Red Hollow's Eastern Branch had officially joined them. Men who once spat insults now shared meals. Men who once threw bottles now followed orders. Territory expanded. Numbers grew.
Yet something inside felt wrong.
Rotten.
Ayaan saw it in the way conversations died when Kashifuddin entered a room.
In the way Masleuddin stood a little straighter, spoke a little firmer, as if compensating for something slipping from his grasp.
In the way Iron Circle members instinctively positioned themselves—not between the brothers, but away from them.
Not arguments.
Not shouting.
Something worse.
Silence.
If this continues… Ayaan thought, fingers curling into his palms so tightly his nails bit into skin,
Iron Circle will divide.
The realization scared him more than Zarqael ever had.
Then he heard it.
A sound that didn't belong in a peaceful afternoon.
A dull thud.
Then another.
Flesh meeting flesh.
Ayaan's head snapped up.
His body reacted before his mind did. He stood abruptly, heart pounding, ears straining to locate the sound. It came again—sharper this time.
From the old training clearing near the trees.
His feet were already moving before he realized it.
He ran.
Branches scratched at his arms as he pushed through the path. His breath came fast, uneven, lungs burning—not from distance, but from fear. Each step carried a terrible certainty.
Please don't be what I think it is.
When he reached the clearing, his breath caught painfully in his throat.
Kashifuddin and Masleuddin were fighting.
No crowd.
No Iron Circle members.
No witnesses.
Just the two brothers.
Masleuddin slid backward across the dirt as he blocked a punch, boots scraping hard enough to kick up dust. A thin line of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth, bright against his skin. His breathing was steady—controlled—but his left shoulder sagged slightly, injured and unguarded.
Kashifuddin stood opposite him.
Perfect posture.
Relaxed shoulders.
Deadly calm.
Not rage.
Not loss of control.
Control sharpened into something dangerous.
"You let him go," Kashifuddin said, stepping forward.
Masleuddin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked onto his brother's. "Akil chose that."
"You stood there," Kashifuddin replied, voice cold and flat, "and watched the police take him."
A step closer.
"We could've saved him," Kashifuddin continued. "You know that."
Masleuddin's jaw tightened. The muscle twitched as he shook his head. "And make his choice meaningless? No."
That was when Kashifuddin attacked again.
Fast.
Too fast.
A straight punch ripped through the air. Masleuddin barely blocked it—his forearm absorbing the blow—but the impact still knocked him backward, feet sliding, balance tested. Kashif didn't pause. He followed instantly.
Knee strike.
Masleuddin twisted away just enough to avoid the worst of it.
Elbow.
Masleuddin raised his guard, the blow rattling his skull.
Another punch.
Masleuddin countered this time, his fist clipping Kashif's ribs—but Kashif didn't even flinch.
"This isn't about rules," Kashifuddin said, landing a heavy kick to Masleuddin's side. "This is about loyalty."
Masleuddin staggered, breath forced from his lungs, but he stayed on his feet. "This is about responsibility!"
They clashed again.
Harder.
The sound echoed through the clearing—sharp, brutal, undeniable. Kashifuddin's attacks were relentless, each movement precise, efficient, stripped of wasted motion. Masleuddin fought with technique and restraint, but step by step, he was being pushed back.
Ayaan stood frozen at the edge of the clearing.
This is my father, he realized.
Not the man who sat quietly at home.
Not the man who told stories softly at night.
This.
This was who he had been.
This is how dangerous he really was.
Masleuddin tried to counter with a hook—
Kashif slipped inside the arc effortlessly and drove an elbow straight into Masleuddin's chest.
The sound was sickening.
Masleuddin gasped, collapsing to one knee, one hand pressed against his ribs.
Kashif raised his fist.
High.
Perfect angle.
Final.
Ayaan's heart slammed violently against his ribs.
No.
He didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't calculate.
He ran.
"Ayaan—!" Masleuddin shouted, too late.
Ayaan threw himself between them.
The punch landed.
Not on Masleuddin.
On Ayaan.
The impact was unreal.
Pain detonated across his face like an explosion. His body lifted off the ground, weightless for a split second, before crashing hard into the dirt. He rolled once. Twice. Then stopped.
The world spun violently.
Sound faded into a ringing hum.
Warm liquid poured from his mouth.
Blood.
Too much blood.
He tried to breathe and failed. His chest seized, lungs refusing to expand properly. His vision blurred, darkened at the edges.
So this…
This is how strong his attacks really were…
Kashifuddin froze.
"Ayaan," he said sharply. "Don't interfere."
Ayaan tried to push himself up. His arms shook uncontrollably. Blood dripped from his lips, splattering the dirt beneath him.
"Stay out of this," Kashifuddin warned, stepping forward. "Or it won't be good for you."
Masleuddin forced himself upright. "Why are you threatening him?" he snapped. "Come here!"
Kashif stepped forward again.
Ayaan's chest tightened painfully.
No.
Kashif raised his fist again.
And something inside Ayaan shattered completely.
He started crying.
Not quietly.
Not with dignity.
He cried like a child who had finally reached the edge of what he could endure.
"Please…!" Ayaan sobbed, his voice breaking violently. "You have no idea… no idea how dangerous this is!"
Kashif hesitated.
Ayaan dragged himself up onto his knees, tears streaming down his face, mixing with blood, dripping into the dirt.
"Your fight… your fight is destroying people's lives!" he cried.
"Because of you… people who love you will divide!"
"Because of this… Iron Circle will break!"
He bent forward, pressing his forehead into the ground, shoulders shaking.
"Please… don't do this… please…"
Kashif's fist trembled.
For a long moment, nothing moved.
The world held its breath.
Then—
Kashif lowered his hand.
He walked toward Ayaan and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Get up," Kashifuddin said quietly.
"I'm sorry."
Ayaan looked up, stunned, tears still falling.
"I didn't realize…," Kashif continued, his voice slower now, heavier, "…that our fight could have consequences like this."
He turned.
Walked to Masleuddin.
Pulled him into a tight hug.
"I'm sorry, little brother," Kashifuddin said softly. "You were right."
Masleuddin closed his eyes.
Wrapped his arms around Kashif.
For the first time in days, the tension cracked.
Later, Masleuddin helped Ayaan sit down, carefully wrapping bandages around his face and ribs, his hands gentle despite the moment that had just passed.
"Thank you," Masleuddin said quietly. "You stopped something terrible today."
Ayaan nodded weakly.
That evening, as the sun dipped low, Ayaan walked alone through the village.
His body hurt.
But his chest felt lighter.
That was when he saw her.