Zughaib stared out the window, his mind wandering through the fog of old memories and new realities. The streets below pulsed with life, but it all felt distant to him, like watching the world through a pane of glass he couldn't quite break through. He sighed, his breath fogging up the glass momentarily, before wiping it away.
A faint beep broke through his thoughts. He glanced down at his pager. The memo alert flashed on the small screen: Cleaner - Errand.
Zughaib's jaw tightened. It wasn't surprising. He knew the Cleaner wouldn't leave him alone for long. Whatever this "errand" was, it was no doubt another step deeper into the shadowy world he'd tried to escape but now seemed inescapable. He had accepted the deal for the sake of survival, but each step felt like it was drawing him back into the abyss.
He stood from his seat by the window, pulling on his black bomber jacket over his bare chest, the fabric rough against his skin. His hands moved methodically, as if on autopilot, tucking a knife into his boot, checking the pockets of his beige camo pants for the essentials—wallet, lighter, and the switchblade he'd taken from the junkie. His black sneakers squeaked against the hardwood floor as he made his way to the door, pausing for a moment to glance back at the empty apartment. It was a world of clutter and chaos, but Zaid's world nonetheless. One Zughaib wasn't sure he belonged in anymore.
He locked the door behind him and walked through the dimly lit, withered hallway of the old complex. The wallpaper was peeling, and the air smelled faintly of mildew. He considered taking the lift, but as he approached, he could hear the gears grinding painfully, the lights flickering as the elevator struggled to climb the floors. Then, from somewhere in the hallway, he heard the sharp voice of an old woman, spitting rapid-fire Chinese in frustration at the elevator's slowness.
Zughaib glanced at the elderly woman, her small, hunched frame shaking a gnarled fist at the metal doors. She was barking insults at no one in particular, her eyes narrowing at Zughaib as if blaming him for the mechanical failure. He gave her a cold, indifferent look and decided against the lift. The last thing he needed was to be trapped in a malfunctioning death box. He turned and headed for the stairs.
The stairwell was dim and smelled of cigarettes, but it was at least faster. As he descended, his mind replayed the events of the last few days—the escape from the island, Rex's sudden betrayal, and the unexpected reunion with Zaid. It all felt disconnected, as if it was happening to someone else. Now, he was on a new errand for the Cleaner, a man who clearly had more secrets than he let on.
At the bottom of the stairs, Zughaib stepped into the lobby. The flickering neon sign above the entrance barely lit the room, casting a sickly green glow on the chipped floor tiles. As he crossed the lobby, he was suddenly stopped by a balding Chinese man wearing a worn brown jacket. The man stood directly in Zughaib's path, his small eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"Who you?" the man asked, his voice thick with a foreign accent. His tone was confrontational, almost as if he had been waiting for Zughaib specifically.
Zughaib gave the man a quick glance, recognizing his type immediately—some self-appointed gatekeeper of the building who thought he had the right to question everyone who came and went. Without breaking stride, Zughaib ignored him completely, brushing past as if he hadn't even heard the question.
The balding man muttered something under his breath, a curse likely, but Zughaib paid no attention as he stepped outside into the cool morning air.
The streets of the neighborhood, Asia Town as it was commonly referred to, bustled with life. The area was a mix of old, run-down shops and vibrant markets. The scent of sizzling street food mingled with the sharp tang of exhaust fumes. Vendors shouted in Chinese, Korean, and Vietnamese, hawking their goods, while mopeds weaved in and out of the narrow streets. The bright reds and golds of lanterns and signs lit up the town like a vibrant, living organism that pulsed with its own chaotic rhythm.
Zughaib walked with purpose, but as he crossed an intersection, a rider on a bicycle shot out from an alley, nearly clipping him. The man barked something in angry Chinglish, slamming his brakes just in time.
"Watch where you go, stupid!" the rider yelled, waving his hands in frustration.
Zughaib turned slowly, his face expressionless, but his eyes locked onto the man with cold intensity. The rider, sensing something off about Zughaib's demeanor, began to backpedal, raising his hands defensively.
"Hey, chill—"
Before the man could finish his sentence, Zughaib stepped forward, delivering a swift, precise strike with the side of his hand to the rider's throat. The man gagged, stumbling backward and dropping to his knees, clutching at his neck as he struggled for air.
Zughaib, still emotionless, stepped over him and casually lifted the bicycle that had been propped against the nearby stall. He swung his leg over the seat and pedaled away without a second glance. The stolen bicycle was a small price to pay for the man's arrogance, and it was faster than walking.
The streets blurred past as Zughaib rode through the narrow alleys and streets of Asia Town, his mind focused on the next move. Soon, the tightly packed buildings gave way to a more open district, the neon lights fading into more commercial blocks. Eventually, he passed a fast food joint called Broasters.
Zughaib slowed the bicycle as his eyes caught sight of a familiar vehicle parked on the curb—a black hearse, its paint polished and gleaming in the dull morning light. The license plate stood out like a beacon: CL34N4R. The Cleaner.
The hearse sat idling quietly, the windows slightly fogged from the cold, and inside, Zughaib could make out the silhouette of the Cleaner, sipping from an oversized slushie cup, his hand drumming on the steering wheel as he waited.
Zughaib rode up to the hearse and knocked on the window. The Cleaner glanced over, his expression unchanging as he pushed open the door with a casual motion. "Get in," he said, his voice as smooth as always.
Zughaib climbed into the passenger seat, the cold leather creaking under his weight. The smell of cheap fast food and the sugary slushie filled the small space. The Cleaner took one last long slurp from the cup before tossing it into the backseat.
"~on time," the Cleaner said, adjusting his fedora.
Zughaib remained silent, his eyes focused on the road ahead as the hearse pulled away from the curb.
As they drove, the streets of the city began to shift, becoming more desolate and industrial, the life of Asia Town fading behind them. The Cleaner spoke casually, as if they were on a pleasant drive rather than heading toward whatever grim task lay ahead.
"I've got something for you," the Cleaner began, his voice almost cheerful. "Simple enough. There's a trail I need you to follow. It'll lead you to a few loose ends I need tied up."
then the Cleaner reaches into his coat and pulling out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Zughaib without looking. "A name, an address, and a little something to get your hands dirty. You know, the usual."
Zughaib unfolded the paper and scanned the details. A name jumped out at him— Anarchy. His blood ran cold, the memories of Lost Island flashing through his mind like a strobe light. The name, the insignia, the shadows that had haunted him were still alive and kicking, and now they were being pulled back into his orbit.
The Cleaner glanced at him, "Because you and I have unfinished business and you need closure, even if you don't know it yet."
Zughaib didn't respond, his eyes narrowing as he stared out the window, the landscape growing more desolate with each passing mile. The Cleaner was right about one thing: Zughaib did have unfinished business. And now, it was time to face the trail that would lead him back into the heart of the storm.