The storm had broken by dawn, leaving East London washed in a pale, exhausted light. Smoke still lingered in alleys, and the smell of blood clung to the air.
Ali stood among the convoy of black Rolls Royces, their polished surfaces dented and cracked from battle. Around him, Rizwan's men gathered silently, their faces unreadable. They had followed Rizwan through fire, and now they looked at Ali—not with loyalty, not yet, but with expectation.
The body lay between them, wrapped in a bloodstained cloth. Rizwan, the man who had seemed untouchable, was gone. The city had lost its shadow.
Ali clenched his fists, forcing himself not to look away. His chest felt hollow, his thoughts tangled in grief and fear. He was just a boy. He wasn't ready. But the silence of Rizwan's soldiers pressed on him like a weight.
"Say something," one of them murmured.
Ali swallowed. The words scraped out, rough but steady. "Rizwan isn't gone. Not really. He left us his path. He left us… a duty."
The men shifted, listening. Ali lifted his chin, voice rising. "We protect the weak. We strike fear into the corrupt. We uphold the balance of this city's shadows. That is his legacy."
For a moment, the silence deepened. Then one of the guards nodded, almost imperceptibly. Another followed. Soon, heads bowed in agreement.
Ali felt the change, subtle but real. They didn't see a boy anymore. They saw the shadow Rizwan had raised.
He turned his gaze toward the city skyline, neon lights faint against the morning haze. The whispers had already begun spreading. He could feel them in the air, in the restless unease of the streets.
"Ali," they would say. "The shadow Rizwan raised."
The thought sent a chill down his spine, but also a fire through his chest. He had chosen. There was no turning back.
He moved among the men, giving orders with newfound clarity. Patrols to guard the neighborhoods. Watchful eyes on corrupt cops. Safe routes for civilians caught between gangs.
The soldiers obeyed without question. They weren't following Ali the boy. They were following Ali, the legacy.
And yet, when night fell and the city returned to darkness, Ali stood alone on a rooftop, staring into the distance. His fists clenched, his shoulders heavy.
He whispered to the void, to Rizwan, to himself: "I'll carry it. Even if it breaks me."
The city didn't answer. Only the shadows did.
Cliffhanger: The city has a new protector, but whispers spread quickly—if Ali is the heir to Rizwan, then every rival will test him. Who will dare to strike first?