The rain had tapered off, leaving the streets damp and slick under the dim glow of flickering streetlights. Zughaib moved like a shadow through the labyrinthine streets, his drenched clothes clinging to his body, his mind a tangle of exhaustion and rage. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the weight of the island was pressing down on him. The betrayal by Rex gnawed at his thoughts, but worse was the feeling of drifting. He was a man untethered, floating through the night like a vagabond lost in his own world, disconnected from everything and everyone.
His eyes scanned the alleyways, the corners, the darkened doorways, searching for something—anything—that would offer a hint of direction. As he wandered aimlessly, the lights of the town blurred into a haze, his mind fraying at the edges. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He had a plan. He had control. But now, control had slipped away, leaving him feeling adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
A voice cut through his fog, sharp and high-pitched. "Hey, you! You look lost, man."
Zughaib tensed, his hand instinctively going to the empty holster at his side, though his gun had been lost during the escape. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the source of the voice—a junkie slumped against a crumbling brick wall, his eyes bloodshot, his face twisted in a sickly grin.
"Need somethin', pal?" the junkie rasped, pushing himself to his feet with a shaky hand. "I got what you need... whatever you're lookin' for."
Zughaib said nothing, but his heart rate quickened. He couldn't afford attention—not now, not from this lowlife. His mind flashed with violent possibilities. This man was an obstacle, a threat, and right now, Zughaib didn't have time for threats.
The junkie stumbled closer, the sickly smell of sweat and stale smoke clinging to him. "Come on, man. Don't walk away. I can help. I know people. I know things."
Zughaib's patience snapped. He surged forward, grabbing the man by his collar and slamming him against the wall with brutal force. The junkie's eyes widened in shock, his hands scrabbling for something in his pockets, but Zughaib was faster. He twisted the man's wrist, forcing a small switchblade from his grasp. The knife clattered to the ground, and with a swift, practiced movement, Zughaib delivered a punch to the man's temple, sending him crumpling into a heap.
Breathing heavily, Zughaib crouched down, his hands searching through the junkie's pockets. He found a few crumbled bills, not much but enough to get by for a while. More importantly, he pocketed the switchblade, the cold metal reassuring in his hand. It wasn't much, but it was something. He couldn't afford to be defenseless.
Quickly, he dragged the unconscious man toward a nearby compost pit, shoving the limp body into the foul-smelling heap. It wasn't the cleanest solution, but it would have to do. He couldn't risk being seen.
As Zughaib straightened up, wiping his hands on his soaked pants, the faint hum of an approaching engine caught his attention. He ducked into the shadows, his heart pounding. A vehicle rolled down the narrow street, its headlights cutting through the misty night. Zughaib peered out from his hiding spot, his eyes narrowing as the vehicle came into view.
It was a hearse, black and sleek, its body reflecting the faint streetlights. A strange chill ran down Zughaib's spine. He had seen that hearse before. The license plate came into view, and his blood ran cold: **CL34N4R**. That was no coincidence. That plate was etched into his memory from long ago—a specter from a darker time in his life.
A strange sense of determination surged through him. Whoever was driving that hearse, they were connected to something deeper, something from his past. He couldn't let it slip away. He waited until the vehicle disappeared around the corner, then moved quickly, his boots slapping against the wet pavement as he followed the trail.
The hearse came to a stop in the parking lot of an old cemetery on the outskirts of town, its dark silhouette blending into the night. Zughaib approached cautiously, keeping his distance, his eyes locked on the parked vehicle. There was no one else around, only the wind rustling through the trees and the distant hum of the city.
He waited, crouched low behind a crumbling stone wall, his breath slow and steady. Moments later, the driver's door of the hearse opened with a soft creak, and a figure stepped out.
Zughaib's heart skipped a beat. The figure was massive, at least six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered and imposing. He wore a long overcoat, black as night, and a wide-brimmed fedora that cast his face into shadow. A mask covered the lower half of his face, giving him the appearance of some sinister undertaker from a forgotten era.
The man stood still for a moment, his head turning slowly, as if sensing something in the air. His hand moved to his side, and Zughaib's stomach tightened as he saw the glint of a revolver in the man's grip. This wasn't just some random cemetery worker. Whoever this was, he was dangerous.
The masked hunk started to pace around the vehicle, his revolver held low but ready. The tension in the air thickened, and Zughaib knew he couldn't stay hidden for long. His mind raced, searching for an exit strategy, but before he could move, there was a rustle behind the bushes.
The hunk's head snapped toward the sound, his voice a deep, sarcastic rumble. "You're not very good at hiding, are you?"
Zughaib cursed silently under his breath. He'd been spotted. There was no point in staying hidden now. With no other options, he stepped out from behind the bush, his body stiff with fatigue and cold. He kept his hands at his sides, his eyes locked on the man in front of him.
The hunk tilted his head slightly, lowering his revolver but keeping it within reach. "Well, well, what do we have here?" he said, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "You look like hell, friend."
Zughaib said nothing, his face blank, unreadable. He could feel the man's eyes scanning him, sizing him up.
"How did you get here?" the hunk asked, his tone curious now. "This isn't the kind of place people just stumble into."
Still, Zughaib remained silent. He wasn't about to spill his story to some masked stranger. Not yet.
The hunk studied him for a moment longer before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Silent type, huh? Fair enough. I've seen your kind before." He turned back to the hearse, holstering his revolver. Zughaib follows the masked hunk as he goes to the morgue of the cemetery.
---
The next morning, the sun peeked through the gray clouds, casting a pale light over the office building where Zaid worked. He sat at his desk, dressed in his eccentruc formal attire, meticulously organizing the papers scattered across his desk. His life was mundane but fluent—everything that Zughaib's wasn't.
Zaid's fingers hovered over a stack of files when something caught his eye. A letter. It had been placed there sometime during the morning rush, but Zaid hadn't noticed it until now. His brow furrowed as he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. There was no return address, only his name written in neat, careful handwriting.
He tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. As his eyes moved across the page, his expression changed. The contents of the letter hit him like a punch to the gut.
It was from Zughaib.
For a moment, Zaid just stared at the paper, his mind reeling. He hadn't heard from his brother in years, not since they had gone their separate ways. And now, out of nowhere, a letter—cryptic, filled with emotions both raw and restrained.
Zaid leaned back in his chair, the letter still clutched in his hand. Whatever was happening, it was only the beginning. And somehow, he knew that this letter was a harbinger of something much darker to come.