Miraz's eyelids twitched.
The light wasn't harsh—it was the soft, orange-yellow of a bulb too old to shine properly. The ceiling above him was cracked, a faded fan spinning slowly with a rusty squeak. The scent of antiseptic mixed with old cigarette smoke.
He sat on a thin mattress, a blanket half-tossed over him. His head ached like a thousand knives were lodged behind his skull. A faint sting pulsed from his ribs and shoulder.
Where the hell…?
His eyes shifted—peeling paint on the walls, posters of rock bands and political protests, a dusty laptop with a cracked screen on the desk. This place… a bachelor's den, no doubt. Lived-in, but quiet. Messy, but not careless.
A groan creaked from outside the door.
Panicked, Miraz's instincts kicked in. He slammed his eyes shut and pretended to still be unconscious.
Click.
The door opened.
Footsteps entered. Light. Calm. No hesitation.
Then—
"I know you're awake," came a voice.
It wasn't threatening. Just... aware. Confident.
Miraz's brow furrowed—but he didn't move yet.
The figure sat beside him. The mattress dipped slightly.
Miraz opened his eyes.
The young man sitting there looked about his age—late twenties, maybe slightly younger. A bandage wrapped around his head, and another coiled tightly on his left hand. His right arm was in a sling, bruises peeking out from under the sleeve.
Despite his injuries, he looked oddly calm. Sharp eyes. Slight smirk. As if pain didn't matter.
"Are you the guy who saved me?" Miraz asked hoarsely.
The man tilted his head, amused. "What do you think?"
Miraz looked at the bandages again. The bruises. The sling.
"…Looking at your condition… seems like you picked a fight with those thugs."
The man grinned. "Guess you could say that."
"…What's your name?" Miraz asked.
The man didn't answer right away. He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. Then, almost like an afterthought—
"Shams."
Miraz's eyes narrowed. The name rang somewhere in the back of his memory. But the pain dulled his thoughts.
Then—
Last Night.
The alley buzzed with violent glee. The thugs—more than thirty of them—were grabbing Miraz's arms, dragging him like a sack of meat.
"He's heavy as hell," one muttered.
"Let's take him where no one hears him scream," another snickered, brandishing a crowbar.
Suddenly—
A voice rang out from above.
"Hey."
They froze.
"Leave him."
The thugs craned their necks up. A figure stood on a third-floor balcony, one hand in a pocket, the other holding a cup of tea.
For a moment—just silence.
Then laughter erupted.
One of the boys cackled. "And if we don't?"
The figure didn't answer right away.
He simply tossed the cup aside. It clattered on the concrete below.
Then he jumped.
From the third floor.
THUD!
He landed in a crouch, dust flying out beneath his boots.
"Then I'll make you," he said, standing tall.
The boys blinked.
"The hell—this guy's insane."
But Shams wasn't bluffing.
He charged forward with a limp—but his strikes were precise. Not flashy. Just brutal. He ducked a bat and jabbed the wielder in the throat. Another tried to stab him with a screwdriver—but he sidestepped and dislocated the kid's shoulder with a single twist.
He was methodical.
One by one, the boys dropped.
But they were too many.
A pipe hit the back of his knee. A bat smacked his ribs. A punch split his brow.
Still—he didn't stop.
He fought not to win.
He fought to buy time.
One final blow knocked him to his knees. Blood streamed down his face.
But by then, most of the gang had backed off—staring at him with a strange mix of fear and disbelief.
"Let's go," their leader muttered. "He's not worth the trouble."
They left Miraz behind—bleeding, unconscious—and Shams half-broken beside him.
---
Now.
Miraz sat in silence, jaw clenched.
"You... jumped from the third floor?"
Shams smirked. "You were gonna get dragged into a pit and vanish. I figured I'd rather be limping than dead."
Miraz exhaled. "I owe you."
"No, you don't," Shams said. "But maybe one day you'll understand why I did it."
Miraz stared at him. "You knew who I was?"
"Umm!..kind of, I barely know about your name."
"Then why help me?"
Shams didn't answer.
He just smiled faintly. "Some fights are personal. Others… are just necessary."
A silence stretched between them.
Two broken men.
One bed.
A shared fire.
And the storm hadn't even begun.
Shams leaned back slightly, exhaling as he wiped a bit of dried blood from the corner of his mouth. The room fell into a quiet lull, broken only by the occasional creak of the fan above.
He glanced over at Miraz.
"So… why'd they come after you like that?"
Miraz stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to the side.
"It started with a football match," he muttered.
He told him everything. From the goal he'd scored… the frustration in the opposing gang's eyes… the whispering, the taunts, the anger. How one of them suddenly called him a "rajakar's grandson"—and from that moment, things spiraled.
Shams listened in silence, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Rajakar's grandson?" he finally repeated, eyebrows knitting together.
"Why would they say that? Is it true?"
Miraz went silent.
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Shams noticed the flicker in his eyes. The way his jaw clenched slightly. He didn't press.
Eventually, Miraz sat up a little despite the pain.
His voice was low. Bitter.
"Even if I told you… you wouldn't believe me."
Shams didn't flinch.
"Try me. I saved your life, didn't I? The least you can do is tell me who I just fought for."
That finally broke through Miraz's wall.
He took a breath, then spoke. Slowly. Sharply.
About his grandfather—Uncle Gramps as he called him—who once held a high position in the Pakistani army before defecting during the war. A man who risked everything to fight for Bangladesh, only to be betrayed by someone close. Branded falsely. His name erased, his honor shattered. How that betrayal has haunted their family for decades.
Miraz's voice cracked slightly as he talked about his grandfather's current condition—lying in bed, barely able to move, drowning in pain, with medication and treatment far beyond what their family could afford.
He spoke of injustice. Of shame. Of rage.
By the end, his hands were trembling.
Shams didn't interrupt once.
And when Miraz finally fell quiet, there was a strange stillness between them. Not of judgment—but understanding.
Shams looked at him carefully.
He couldn't tell if every word was true.
But what he could tell—was that none of it was a lie.
After a moment, Shams smiled softly.
"So what you need right now… is money."
Miraz gave a dry chuckle.
"Yeah. Kind of. A hell lot of it."
Shams nodded thoughtfully.
"I can help you."
Miraz blinked.
Then scanned the room again. The broken fan. The peeling walls. The used noodles packets stacked in the corner.
He let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
"You live in a place like this. Barely better than the slums. And you're talking about helping me? What a joke."
For a second, Shams' smile faded. His jaw tightened.
Miraz immediately felt a sting of embarrassment, looking away.
But then—Shams' smile returned.
This time, it was different.
A confident smile. A dangerous one.
"I said I can help you," Shams repeated.
"But it's not free. There's one condition."
Miraz looked up.
"What condition?"
Shams leaned forward, his eyes gleaming now with something unspoken.
"I'll tell you. But once you hear it—you don't get to walk away."