An Uneasy Peace
Six Weeks Later — Al-Faraj
The sun rose lazily over Al-Faraj, casting long shadows on the narrow streets still scarred by war. Rubble had been cleared, walls repainted, and the broken streetlights buzzed with new life. But peace here was never silent—it always came with whispers.
Khamzah stood by a community water tank, surrounded by old men from the masjid and mothers with grocery bags. A young boy—same age Khamzah was when his parents died—thanked him with a shy glance after receiving a new school satchel branded with the "Brothers of Faraj" emblem.
> "Education is the beginning of a different fight," Khamzah said to the group.
"If we can arm them with books, maybe they won't need bullets."
Polite applause followed. Smiles. Head nods.
But as the crowd dispersed, Basheer leaned in.
> "They clap, but they fear you."
Khamzah turned his head slightly.
> "Good. Fear keeps the wolves back."
> "And friends too."
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the children run across the dusty football pitch Khamzah had helped rebuild.
---
Within the Ranks
The warehouse where Salim once ran weapons now stored rice bags and cooking oil. Khamzah converted the space into a food distribution hub—but not all his men were pleased.
Layth tossed a box onto a cart and muttered under his breath:
> "We didn't fight to become delivery boys."
Basheer overheard him.
> "You fought to survive. You live to serve now."
Layth scoffed and walked off.
Khamzah entered just in time to catch the tension. He said nothing, but his presence alone froze the room.
He surveyed the supplies, checked the records, then nodded.
> "We distribute to everyone. No bribes, no favoritism. If anyone asks why, tell them we feed even those who curse our name."
A quiet respect followed. But it was clear: cracks were forming.
---
The Streets Speak
Graffiti had changed from "SALIM LIVES" to "KHAMZAH THE BUILDER". But under a bridge, in faded red paint, someone had written:
> "Kings fall too."
Rumors spread of small fights breaking out in the north. Someone was paying teenagers to sell pills that weren't part of Khamzah's supply chain. The product was cleaner. Stronger. Anonymous.
Khamzah's control, once iron, now felt like sand.
At a tea stall, an old man spoke just loud enough for the others to hear:
> "First they hand out rice... then they take your sons."
---
A Leader in the Mirror
That night, Khamzah sat in his room, the call to prayer echoing across rooftops.
He stared at his reflection—scar under his eye, beard thicker now, shoulders heavier.
He touched the Quran on the shelf, then paused.
His father once told him:
> "You either become what breaks you, or you become what outlives it."
He didn't know which one he was becoming.
The peace was uneasy.
And peace, in Al-Faraj, never lasted long.
---
A Message from the Past
The café was empty, save for a flickering bulb and the low hum of a battered ceiling fan. Khamzah rarely met anyone in public now, but this meeting couldn't happen anywhere else. Not in a safehouse. Not in the warehouse. Not in his office.
Basheer sat by the window, scanning the street. Layth leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, chewing a toothpick like it owed him money.
Then he walked in.
Old. Cane. Long white thobe. Eyes like desert stones.
Imran.
Khamzah had heard his name whispered when he was a child—his father's fixer, strategist, and cleaner. A man who disappeared the night his father's deal went south. Rumored dead. Or in prison. Or worse.
But here he was. Real. Solid. Smiling.
> "You've got your father's shoulders," Imran said as he lowered himself into the chair.
> "And his ghosts," Khamzah replied.
---
Old Shadows
They drank tea. Silent for minutes. The air was heavy with memory.
Imran finally pulled out a faded envelope and slid it across the table.
> "This came from Syria. Six years ago. I've kept it hidden. It was never just Salim. He was just the middleman. Your father was meant to deliver something bigger than a street. Bigger than drugs. This—" he tapped the envelope, "—is the web."
Khamzah opened it.
Inside: documents, photographs, and a single name circled in red ink — Nassir Al-Haddad.
A Saudi businessman. Legitimate on paper. But beneath it, tied to militia in the Levant, arms smuggling across borders, laundering through local religious charities.
> "Your father was supposed to be his Saudi door," Imran said.
> "And when he backed out?"
> "They killed him. Or made it look like they did."
Khamzah stiffened.
> "What do you mean made it look like?"
Imran smiled grimly.
> "Bodies burn easy in the desert. But bones don't lie. And the remains they buried under your family's name—weren't your father's."
---
A New War
Imran folded his hands, voice lower now.
> "Salim was just the first domino. But someone else is coming. Quiet. Smarter. Backed by foreign money and blood money."
> "Red Minaret," Khamzah muttered.
Imran raised an eyebrow.
> "You've heard of them?"
> "They've already moved product into my streets."
> "Then you're already late."
Silence again.
Layth shifted.
> "Why tell us now?"
Imran looked at Khamzah.
> "Because he didn't just kill your father's dreams. He used him. And now he's circling back for you."
He stood slowly.
> "You've made noise, Khamzah. Real noise. Kings don't fall quietly. But they do fall."
He limped out, cane tapping like a countdown.
Basheer leaned forward.
> "So what now?"
Khamzah stared at the documents, the name circled in red, and whispered:
> "Now we stop playing local."
---
A Crack in the Crew
Later That Night – The Warehouse
The old weapons warehouse—once filled with crates of ammo and smuggled rifles—had evolved into Khamzah's central operations hub. Now, the same floors that echoed with the scrape of steel and gunfire held rows of desks, computer monitors, and intel boards pinned with photos of suspects, locations, and supply routes.
But beneath the new coat of paint and order, the air still carried the residue of old blood.
Khamzah stood over a table littered with documents Imran had handed over earlier that day. Red circles around key names, timestamps on secret transfers, satellite images, border crossings. At the center of the spider web was Nassir Al-Haddad—the puppetmaster of a much larger, international drug and militia empire, operating under the guise of a clean businessman.
Basheer entered silently, holding his phone out.
> "One of the lookouts near the docks just spotted a Red Minaret convoy moving in. We tracked two SUVs, blacked-out windows. They parked near Warehouse 17. No local crews there."
Khamzah nodded, still staring at the files. His fingers hovered over a photo—Nassir shaking hands with a Saudi politician at a gala.
> "They're not hiding anymore," he murmured. "They're preparing to own the city."
He looked up.
> "Call a full crew meeting. Tonight."
---
Midnight Assembly
The crew gathered just past midnight. Not in their usual clean, public spaces, but deep in the storage section of the compound—dark, raw, and private.
Seventeen men and two women sat in folding chairs. All veterans of the turf war that brought down Salim. All loyal. Or so Khamzah thought.
Layth arrived last, sauntering in with his usual swagger. A bruised eye from a street altercation earlier glinted with quiet resentment.
Khamzah stood before them, hands behind his back. No theatrics. No smiles.
> "I need your ears and not your mouths for the next five minutes."
Silence.
He stepped forward and threw the Red Minaret dossier on the table.
> "This is who we're up against. Not just Salim's replacements. These people funded civil wars. They don't sell dope on corners—they sell regimes."
He picked up a photo—Nassir on a yacht with Eastern European arms dealers.
> "They've started planting roots here. Our streets. Our homes. They've been pushing product into our youth while we were busy building playgrounds and painting murals."
A murmur of concern spread across the room.
Khamzah continued.
> "I know some of you think I've gone soft. That I traded strength for community. But this—" he gestured to the web of threats—"this isn't peace. This was just the eye of the storm."
> "War is coming. Again."
---
Layth Breaks Rank
Layth finally spoke, clapping sarcastically from the back.
> "War, huh? What a surprise. And here I thought we were running food drives and free clinics."
All eyes turned.
Khamzah didn't move.
> "Say what's on your chest."
Layth stepped forward slowly.
> "I'll say it clear. Some of us didn't fight to play mayor of Faraj. We bled, we killed, we suffered to take power. Real power. But now we're babysitting civilians and patrolling like unpaid police."
> "And now that you've let our crew grow weak, the real sharks are here. And we're behind."
Khamzah's jaw tightened.
> "You think feeding our people is weakness? You think peace is surrender?"
Layth laughed bitterly.
> "Peace is just you buying time. But time for what, brother? So you can chase ghosts like your father? So we can die trying to clean up a mess that started before we were born?"
A hush settled over the room. Several of the younger members shifted uncomfortably. Layth's words had landed.
Basheer stood up sharply.
> "You forget who gave you your second chance, Layth. You forget who pulled you from the floor of a jail cell and put a weapon back in your hand."
> "Maybe I haven't forgotten," Layth said, stepping close to Khamzah. "Maybe I remember too well. And maybe I think you're becoming just like your old man—too noble to survive."
Khamzah's eyes narrowed.
He stepped even closer, the room holding its breath.
> "You're right," he said quietly. "I am like my father. But I learned from his mistake."
> "What mistake?"
> "Trusting the wrong people."
Silence.
Layth held his stare, jaw clenched.
> "So what? You gonna exile me? Kill me? You wanna rule by fear now, Khamzah?"
> "No," Khamzah said, backing away. "I'll let your own choices do that."
---
Aftermath
Later that night, Layth walked out of the compound without saying a word.
Basheer watched from the shadows, worry etched across his face.
> "He's going to talk to someone," Basheer muttered.
Khamzah nodded slowly.
> "Let him."
> "You think he'll betray us?"
> "I think he already has."
The warehouse fell quiet again, but this time it wasn't peace.
It was the sound of walls cracking from within.
---
New Blood, New Enemies
A Deal in the Shadows
Layth didn't go home after the meeting.
He didn't return to the apartment above the barbershop where he'd been staying or check in with Basheer. Instead, he took a long, winding walk through the city's sleeping veins until he reached a place no one in the Brotherhood was supposed to go: the district of Bir Ashqar, long held by the Red Minaret syndicate.
Neon lights flickered over rusted iron gates. Outdated election posters peeled off cracked walls. This was enemy turf—but tonight, Layth didn't move like prey.
He was expected.
Two men met him at the corner—lean, well-dressed, foreign. They didn't speak. They just motioned silently, guiding him into an underground garage sealed by a steel shutter.
Inside, the stench of gasoline and blood lingered. A poker table had been set up in the center of the room, where three men played without looking up. One of them, clean-shaven, tattooed, wore a navy thawb trimmed with gold. He had a glass of dark wine and a sidearm on the table like decoration.
This was Nassir Al-Haddad's lieutenant: Sami "The Count" Darwish.
He looked up at Layth and smiled.
> "Well, well. The prince of Faraj himself."
Layth didn't smile back. He walked up and dropped a folded sheet of paper onto the table—Khamzah's map of operations, hand-marked routes, drop times, and names.
Sami unfolded it slowly. His grin widened.
> "Looks like the king's crown is slipping."
Layth exhaled, jaw stiff.
> "I want power. Not charity. Khamzah's forgotten who we are. He'll get people killed chasing some moral dream."
Sami leaned back, twirling his glass.
> "Then maybe it's time to wake everyone up."
> "I'm not here for speeches," Layth said. "You said you had a position for me. Is that still on the table?"
Sami nodded.
> "Of course. Lieutenant. Direct command. You'll be over half of East Faraj. You just give us the docks, the safehouses, and a few names."
Layth paused.
> "No kids. No schools. No bombings."
> "You want to make a deal with devils, Layth, don't act surprised when the fire spreads."
Sami raised his glass and smiled.
> "We'll spare what we can. But the city belongs to us now. With or without you."
Layth didn't respond.
But he didn't walk away, either.
---
Back in Al-Faraj
The next morning, Khamzah sat in the courtyard of the masjid, watching the neighborhood children sweep sand from the tiled floor before prayers.
Aadil approached with tension written all over his face.
> "Layth didn't come back. I checked the apartment. Gone. So is his burner."
Khamzah stood slowly.
> "Basheer was right. He's made his move."
> "You think he's gone to them?"
> "He is one of them now."
He stared at the minaret rising over the block like a watchtower.
> "And if we don't act fast, this whole place will fall with him."
---
The Enemy's New Face
That same day, Red Minaret patrols began appearing near the eastern market—the edge of Khamzah's domain.
Not aggressive. Not overt.
Just watching.
Young men in brand-new keffiyehs, faces clean and calm, sitting on benches. Drinking tea.
They didn't say a word.
But the message was clear.
We're here. We're moving in.
And by nightfall, a new graffiti appeared on a wall just two blocks from the Brotherhood's headquarters:
> "The future bows to no king.
– Red Minaret."
---
A Deal with the Devil
Rumors in the Market
The market in Al-Faraj buzzed louder than usual that morning. Not from the usual haggling or the clatter of carts—but from whispers.
> "Layth's been seen near Bir Ashqar."
"Red Minaret boys sitting like hawks on the eastern wall."
"Even the police won't enter that alley anymore."
Khamzah strolled past a spice stall, the scent of cardamom in the air, but his eyes were cold. Behind him, Aadil kept pace, listening to every merchant's murmured warning.
> "The streets are talking," Aadil muttered.
"Let them," Khamzah said. "They need to know this isn't a dream. The storm is real."
---
Infiltration
That afternoon, Basheer met Khamzah behind the abandoned prayer hall—where the Brotherhood first formed.
> "I followed Layth's trail. Confirmed it with the dock boys. He's been supplying intel to Red Minaret for weeks. They're already using it."
He handed over a flash drive.
> "Warehouse 9. Burned down last night. We lost three crates and a handler. That was Layth's station."
Khamzah pocketed the drive without a word. But his eyes burned.
> "So that's how he wants to play."
Basheer leaned in.
> "There's more. Word is he's setting up a deal between Nassir's people and our local smugglers. They want access to the desert run. Once they have that—"
> "We're boxed in from all sides," Khamzah finished.
---
The Interrogation
Khamzah's men picked up Suleiman, a young crew member seen talking to Layth recently. He was brought into a basement room lit by a single bulb.
He was scared—no more than nineteen.
> "I didn't know, I swear!" he cried. "He just said we were doing a clean deal. I didn't know it was Red Minaret!"
Basheer slammed his fist on the table.
> "Don't lie. What did he promise you?"
Suleiman hesitated.
> "Money. Real power. Said Khamzah was going to get us all killed, chasing some old revenge story."
Khamzah stood quietly in the shadows, then stepped into the light.
> "And what do you believe, Suleiman?"
The boy looked up, eyes trembling.
> "I… I don't know anymore."
> "Then you're a danger to everyone."
---
The Confrontation
Night fell hard. Khamzah sent a single word to Layth through the old channels:
Meet. Alone. Just us.
The meeting took place in the courtyard where they once trained together, fists bruised and hopeful. Now, they stood as enemies.
Layth arrived first, armed but not alone. Two Red Minaret guards watched from a rooftop.
Khamzah walked in without protection.
> "You didn't have to bring shadows," he said.
> "Didn't think you'd come alone," Layth replied.
Silence passed.
> "Why, Layth?" Khamzah finally asked. "After everything? Why sell us out?"
Layth's face twisted with both regret and bitterness.
> "Because I'm tired of starving under 'noble' men who preach loyalty while the city rots. You had your chance to lead us to something real."
> "So you chose devils?"
> "At least they offer results."
Khamzah stepped closer.
> "They will kill us. Our people. Our mothers. Our children. They don't build—they consume."
Layth's voice cracked.
> "And what did we build, Khamzah? A better prison?"
---
A Dangerous Proposal
Khamzah made his move.
> "Give me access to Nassir. One meeting. I'll walk into the lion's den. If I fail, if I die… you win. But if I live—if I can stop this from blowing apart everything—we all win."
Layth hesitated.
> "You really think they'll talk to you?"
> "I think they're arrogant enough to think they can control me. Let's see who controls whom."
Layth sighed. His hands trembled as he reached into his pocket and tossed a burner phone on the ground.
> "They'll call you at dawn. If you lie, if you trick them—they'll burn down the whole quarter."
> "Let them try."
---
The Devil's Gate
Dawn. Khamzah received a call from a scrambled number.
> "Come alone. No wire. No eyes. Bring your truth, or bring your last words."
The meeting was set for a villa in the Jazeera Hills, surrounded by concrete, silence, and snipers.
Inside the villa, Nassir Al-Haddad awaited.
Suave. Cold. A monster in silk.
> "So you're the ghost who thinks he's a lion."
Khamzah didn't bow.
> "I'm here to offer what you can't buy—peace."
Nassir chuckled.
> "Peace doesn't sell, my friend. Fear does. Blood does."
> "But loyalty… lasts longer."
Nassir's eyes sharpened.
> "What are you offering?"
> "Let me keep Al-Faraj. You can have the ports and the mines up north. We run our streets clean, and your deals stay untouched. No war. No headlines. You win without a single bullet."
A long pause.
Then a sip of wine.
> "Interesting."
---
A Price Paid
The deal didn't come cheap.
Nassir demanded names—traitors, rivals, even some Brotherhood allies who had stepped too far out of line.
> "Every kingdom must offer a sacrifice," he said.
Khamzah gave up two names—corrupt ex-militia leaders who had long betrayed the neighborhood. Wolves in sheep's clothing.
It was enough.
But inside, Khamzah knew what this meant.
> He was no longer clean.
The stain had touched him now.
And it would never fully wash away.
---
The Return
Khamzah returned to Al-Faraj to a silent welcome.
Basheer looked at him, reading his face.
> "They took the deal?"
> "They did."
> "And what did it cost?"
Khamzah didn't answer immediately.
He looked toward the rising sun, already burning over the rooftops.
> "Everything I once believed in."
---
The Protest
The first signs were subtle. A torn flyer here. A spray-painted word on a wall. A sudden coldness in the eyes of vendors who once offered free bread or a sip of tea. The atmosphere in Al-Faraj had changed.
It was no longer just whispers in the alleys. It was heat, rising from the cracks in the street. Heat that even Khamzah could feel under his boots.
---
Fire in the Gutters
It began near the old mosque.
A group of women stood silently, holding up images of their sons—missing, jailed, or dead. They wore white scarves over their faces. Their silence screamed.
Later that afternoon, the youth took over the roundabout near the meat market. They lit tires on fire and waved signs:
> "You traded blood for power!"
"This isn't what the Brotherhood promised!"
"Where is Suleiman?"
Basheer called from the rooftop of their surveillance post.
> "It's not just kids anymore," he said. "The old guard's with them. Even the bakers. This is about more than Layth now."
Khamzah stared down at the crowd gathering below, smoke curling into the sky.
> "I gave them peace."
> "You gave them a deal with the devil."
---
The Clash at Bab Al-Nur
By evening, the protest had turned into a march.
Hundreds surged toward Bab Al-Nur—the symbolic gate into the heart of Al-Faraj. That's where Khamzah's control center was. Where the Brotherhood had once sworn to protect the people.
Now, the people had come to question the very foundation they built.
Streets echoed with chants:
> "We want the truth!"
"Where is our future?"
"No kings in Al-Faraj!"
Khamzah's security detail was on edge. Tear gas was prepped. Rubber bullets loaded. Basheer stood near the barrier line, eyes dark.
> "If this breaks, we'll lose everything. Respect. Control. Maybe our lives."
Khamzah took off his jacket and stepped forward.
> "I'll speak."
---
Khamzah Among the Crowd
The crowd fell into a hush as Khamzah walked up to the makeshift stage. Not because they revered him—but because they wanted answers.
A young woman with fire in her voice stepped forward. She couldn't have been more than 22.
> "You were one of us," she shouted. "You made the devils run. And now you sit with them at their tables."
Someone threw a stone. It missed Khamzah by inches. Another followed. Then another.
Still, he didn't flinch.
> "You want the truth?" he said, voice rising above the jeers. "Fine. I'll give it to you. I met with Nassir. I cut a deal. I saved this neighborhood from war."
Shouts erupted.
> "You SOLD us!"
"You LIED!"
Khamzah raised a hand.
> "I made a decision because I didn't want our mothers burying sons every week. You think I haven't paid? You think I walk these streets with joy in my heart?"
His voice cracked—not from fear, but fatigue.
> "This life… this throne, if you want to call it that… it's built on ash. I've burned friends to protect strangers. I've watched brothers betray me."
He looked at the crowd, then directly at the young woman who confronted him.
> "You think I want to be king? I want to survive. I want you to survive."
The woman stepped back, eyes conflicted.
---
A Crisis of Faith
As the night deepened, the crowd began to split.
Some threw down their signs. Others turned their backs.
But a few still stood tall, still angry, still ready to revolt.
In the quiet that followed, Aadil stepped beside Khamzah.
> "They don't know whether to hate you or thank you."
> "Neither do I," Khamzah whispered.
A molotov cocktail exploded three blocks away. Sirens howled. Somewhere, a scream rang out.
---
Cracks in the Inner Circle
Later that night, in the old safehouse, Basheer spoke openly for the first time in days.
> "You've lost the people. They smell blood on your hands. Even if they don't know what kind."
> "And you?" Khamzah asked.
Basheer hesitated.
> "I've always followed you. But now… I wonder where you're going."
Aadil entered, grim-faced.
> "Layth's been seen again. Not with Red Minaret—he's started something new. A breakaway group. Calls it The Purge."
Khamzah closed his eyes.
> "He's using the protest to rebuild."
> "And the people are listening."
---
The Message
Before dawn, someone spray-painted bold words across the old Brotherhood wall in red paint:
> "THE DEVIL DOES NOT NEGOTIATE — HE INFECTS."
Khamzah stared at it for a long time.
Basheer stood beside him, silent.
Finally, Khamzah turned.
> "It's time we write our own scripture again."
---
The Quiet Betrayal
Shadows Beneath the Lanterns
It was well past midnight when the winds in Al-Faraj shifted.
The protests had thinned, but the streets pulsed with the kind of silence that preceded storms. Khamzah sat alone in the back room of the Brotherhood's base — an old textile warehouse now fortified with bulletproof glass, surveillance screens, and underground passageways. But no matter how tight the net, snakes still slipped through.
He watched the security feeds without blinking. In one corner of the compound, Aadil stood in the courtyard, hands in pockets, watching the stars. In another, Basheer leaned against the balcony railing, head bowed in thought.
And somewhere else — someone was talking.
---
The Leak
Earlier that week, a burner phone had been found hidden behind a false tile in the washroom. It had been used to send coordinates, times, photos — subtle things that on their own seemed meaningless. But stitched together, they told a story only enemies could read.
A technician traced the signal to a comm ping three days ago — not from the outside, but from within the heart of the Brotherhood compound. One of their own had made the call.
Khamzah hadn't said a word about it.
He was waiting for the traitor to reveal themselves.
Tonight, he would.
---
The Setup
Khamzah slipped on his black coat and nodded at the two guards at the west gate.
> "No shadows. No steel," he ordered. "Let them come if they will."
He spread word that he'd be at Al-Hilal Café, the open-air teashop where his father once brokered small-time deals. The message was planted intentionally in the Brotherhood's inner channel — visible only to his top seven men.
Aadil was among them. So was Basheer.
So was Riyaz, the quiet logistics man no one ever suspected.
---
The Fracture
Before leaving, Khamzah cornered Basheer in the stairwell.
> "Would you kill me if I deserved it?" he asked plainly.
Basheer's eyes narrowed.
> "That depends. Deserve it how?"
> "If I became the very thing we swore to burn."
> "Then I wouldn't have to kill you," Basheer said. "You'd already be dead."
Their eyes locked for a long moment. A test passed. Or postponed.
---
The Ambush
Khamzah sat alone at the café, sipping mint tea, as the minutes dragged into hours.
Then the signal came — three flashes from the corner rooftop. A spotter had seen movement. Armed figures, four in total, weaving silently through the alley.
Red Minaret soldiers.
He remained still, hands on the table. They approached from both sides. No shouting. No fanfare.
Then came the moment.
The soldiers moved — but so did shadows behind them.
Khamzah's men burst from hiding — a mix of Brotherhood loyalists and local fighters.
The Red Minaret ambush was itself ambushed.
Blood splattered the tile floor.
But one of the soldiers, when cornered, shouted something chilling:
> "It wasn't us who gave you up! It was one of your own! The engineer!"
The engineer.
Riyaz.
---
The Confrontation
Back at the compound, Khamzah stormed into the logistics room where Riyaz had spent his nights checking inventory and monitoring cameras.
The room was empty.
Drawers flung open. A drawer in the floor left slightly ajar. A cable snipped.
A getaway plan.
He was gone.
A stash of Brotherhood intel files was missing — copies of blueprints, supply routes, and encrypted radio codes.
On the desk, a piece of torn cloth rested.
The Brotherhood's red armband — soaked in black ink.
A final insult.
---
The Consequences
The compound erupted in fury.
> "We trusted him!" someone shouted.
"We slept next to a traitor!" cried another.
"We're not safe," said Aadil, quietly.
Basheer punched a wall hard enough to bleed. Khamzah, meanwhile, didn't speak for hours.
Finally, he gathered his crew.
> "From this point forward," he said, "trust is earned daily. No one moves alone. No comms off record. We are at war — not just with them, but with ourselves."
Then he locked eyes with Aadil.
> "You said something once — about becoming what we fight."
Aadil nodded.
> "I remember."
> "Make sure we don't," Khamzah replied. "Or kill me before I do."
---
The Final Twist
At dawn, a small boy knocked at the Brotherhood gate. In his hand was a crumpled note — greasy from his fingers, but the handwriting unmistakable.
It read:
> "The boy is mine. The street is next. You gave me your kingdom — now I'll take your crown. —R."
Khamzah's blood froze.
The boy?
Layth's younger brother — the orphan Khamzah had taken in — was missing.
The street?
Al-Faraj.
The crown?
His life's work.
---