The rain came down in sheets, drumming against the windows of the morgue like an unrelenting percussion, the steady rhythm punctuated only by the occasional distant rumble of thunder. Inside, the air was still, thick with the sterile smell of antiseptic and the faint, lingering scent of decay. In the dimly lit reception area, a figure sat behind a desk, his large hands tapping in a slow, deliberate rhythm on the surface.
The hunk from the night before, the one who called himself "Cleaner," was waiting. His wide-brimmed fedora sat on the desk beside him, and the mask he usually wore was pulled down, revealing a square jaw dusted with stubble. His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked between the clock on the wall and the silent man standing across the room.
Zughaib stood just inside the entrance, soaked from the rain but unmoving, his eyes scanning the sparse, unwelcoming surroundings. His presence was like a ghost, silent and watchful. He had seen morgues before, too many in fact, but this one felt different. Perhaps it was the oppressive quiet or the unsettling knowledge that the Cleaner worked here, making the place feel less like a resting ground and more like a staging area for something darker.
The Cleaner's fingers drummed a final time on the desk before he spoke, his voice low but clear. "You look like you've been through hell."
Zughaib said nothing, but his gaze locked with the Cleaner's. His silence was more than enough response.
With a sigh, the Cleaner reached for a pen and paper, sliding them across the desk. "I don't have time for guessing games. Write it down. Where've you been all these years?"
Zughaib stared at the paper for a moment before sitting down at the desk, his posture tense. His hand moved across the page, the sound of the pen scratching against the paper the only noise in the otherwise silent room. He didn't write much—just the basics, the bullet points of a life spent on the run, of battles fought in shadows, of betrayals that never healed.
When he finished, he pushed the paper back toward the Cleaner, who picked it up and read through it quickly. His expression didn't change, though his eyes flickered with something like mild interest.
"Interesting," the Cleaner said, leaning back in his chair. "You've been busy. But that doesn't explain why you're here now. What's your plan?"
Zughaib's eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained silent. He didn't know what his plan was, not yet. Everything had gone off the rails the moment Rex had vanished, and now he was drifting, looking for something to anchor him—anything.
The Cleaner chuckled, a low, almost predatory sound. "I get it. No plan. Just surviving. Well, I've seen men like you before. People who don't belong anywhere. Outcasts." He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, and his voice dropped lower. "I'm gonna give you some advice, and you should take it seriously. Go low. Lay low. Disappear for a while. This place got eyes everywhere, and right now, you're a loose thread. And loose threads get cut."
Zughaib tilted his head slightly, the cold light from the overhead lamps casting shadows across his sharp features. He didn't like being told what to do, but he knew enough to recognize when a warning was worth heeding.
Cleaner smiled thinly. "Or," he added, "you could come back here from time to time. I might have... errands. Jobs that need doing. And for someone like you, well, it could keep you busy, keep you off the radar."
Zughaib's brow furrowed. Errands. He knew exactly what that meant—dirty work. Whatever the Cleaner was involved in, it wasn't legal, and it wasn't clean. But Zughaib was no stranger to the dark side of life. He'd lived in it for years. Still, something about this offer made him hesitate. Did he really want to sink deeper into this world?
The Cleaner watched him, sensing the hesitation. "You don't have to decide now. But think about it. The downtown's a dangerous place at late nights. You're gonna need allies." He pushed back from the desk and stood, reaching for a phone. "Now, about your brother."
Zughaib's eyes narrowed further, his body tensing as the Cleaner dialed a number and held the phone to his ear. After a few rings, a voice on the other end answered, groggy and irritated.
"Yeah?" It was Zaid, his voice thick with sleep.
"Zaid," the Cleaner said, his voice smooth and unhurried, "you might want to wake up. I've got something you're gonna want to hear."
Zaid's tone shifted instantly, the irritation replaced with suspicion. "Who the hell is this?"
"Let's just say I'm a mutual acquaintance. I'm calling about your brother."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When Zaid spoke again, his voice was sharp, controlled. "What about him?"
"He's here," the Cleaner said simply. "At the morgue. You might want to come down. Have a reunion."
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Zaid's voice returned, tight and clipped. "I'll be there."
The Cleaner hung up the phone, turning to Zughaib with a smirk. "Give it an hour. He'll show."
---
An hour later, the rain hadn't let up, turning the cemetery into a swamp of mud and slick stone. Zaid's old, beaten-up two-door crossover came to a stop just outside the gates, its headlights cutting through the rain like dim beacons in the darkness. Zaid sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring through the windshield at the path that led to the morgue.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as a shiver ran down his spine. He hadn't seen his brother in years. Not since their lives had split in two opposite directions—Zughaib into whatever world of shadows he had disappeared into, and Zaid into the mundane grind of office life, working late shifts and fighting off the creeping sense of emptiness. He had heard rumors about Zughaib, about the things he had done, but they had never spoken, not since... not since Ma.
Finally, with a sigh, Zaid reached for his raincoat and stepped out of the car, the cold rain instantly soaking through his clothes. He made his way down the path, each step feeling heavier than the last. By the time he reached the morgue's door, his heart was pounding in his chest.
The door creaked open, and Zaid stepped inside, shaking the rain from his coat. The reception area was dimly lit, and standing there, leaning against the wall, was his brother, Zughaib.
The years hadn't been kind to either of them. Zaid's hair was thinning, and he had put on a few pounds, the stress of his job and the lack of sleep showing in the lines on his face. Zughaib, on the other hand, looked leaner, harder—his face sharper, his eyes colder.
For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other. The silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled with the ghosts of everything they had never said, everything they had left behind.
Then, Zaid broke the silence with a grin, though it was strained. "Well, look at you," he said, his voice lighter than he felt. "Still alive, huh?"
Zughaib's lips twitched into a polite smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He nodded slightly but said nothing.
Zaid scratched the back of his neck, glancing around the room. "This place gives me the creeps. What are you doing here?"
Zughaib shrugged, his eyes flicking toward the Cleaner, who stood in the shadows, watching the reunion with a detached interest.
"Doesn't matter," Zaid muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "Let's get out of here."
Zughaib followed his brother to the door, casting one last glance at the Cleaner, who offered a nod as if to say their conversation wasn't over yet. Zughaib felt a sinking feeling in his gut, but he pushed it aside. For now, he had other things to focus on.
After the brothers reunion and departure, the Cleaner calls one of his contacts, asking for potential hired gun to do some dirty work.
---
They drove in silence through the rain-soaked streets, the tension between them thick and unspoken. Zaid's old apartment complex was as rundown as his car—an aging building with peeling paint and broken windows, the kind of place where the rent was cheap and the neighbors kept to themselves.
Inside, Zaid threw his keys on the counter and collapsed onto the couch with a sigh. "So," he said, breaking the silence at last, "I guess you want to hear about me. What I've been doing." He gestured around the small, cluttered apartment. "Not much, as you can see."
Zughaib stood by the window, his eyes scanning the street below. He didn't respond, but Zaid kept talking anyway.
"Office work. Boring as hell. But it pays the bills." He glanced at Zughaib, his eyes flicking over his brother's plump, worn figure.
Zughaib's lips twitched into a brief smirk, but again, he said nothing.
Zaid sighed, rubbing his temples. "You never were one for small talk, were you? Always the strong, silent type."
Zughaib didn't respond, his thoughts already drifting back to the Cleaner and whatever
mess was brewing in the shadows. He glanced around the room, taking in the old furniture, the stacks of papers, the cluttered shelves. This wasn't his world anymore. It never had been.
Both brothers knew this reunion wasn't going to be as simple as it is.